


Girl Waits with Flowers

by lilbluednacer



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Detective Stiles, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, POV Second Person, Prostitution, Slow Burn, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-05-16 01:45:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5808550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilbluednacer/pseuds/lilbluednacer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your days are filled with men and cash, a revolving door of high end hotels and piles of powder. Until the night you're waiting for a date and you meet Detective Stilinski.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's So Thrilling But Also Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> This is a pretty dark Stydia one, guys. Please check the tags before reading.

You meet him in a bar on the ground floor of the Orient Hotel downtown on a Thursday night. You're strapped into elegant silk lingerie under your little black dress, your hair is blown out, and you're nursing an almost finished vodka tonic because your date is late.

You are never late. You are charming, you are beautiful, and you are prompt as hell.

You wish you had turned this down, wish you had told Erica to fuck off when she'd called you begging you to take her appointment.

But you happen to have expenses. You told her you'd take it. You'll have time to hate yourself later, when you're in the backseat of a cab, counting paper bills like prayer beads between your fingers.

You get your ass to Drybar for a blowout, squeeze yourself into the little black dress that shows off your ample cleavage and tiny waist, and do a quick line off an old copy of Vogue in your tiny apartment.

Then you go to a bar and meet _him_.

Well, you don't _meet_ him, meet him. It's unintentional. An accident. It's bad luck, but your luck has been bad long before him.

"Buy you another?"

It's the guy from down the bar, the one sitting alone working on a glass of whiskey. Up close you can see golden-brown eyes, pale skin dotted with moles.

He's attractive, but not what you normally go for (he doesn't appear flush with cash, and he doesn't have the crystal cut bone structure of your exes). He's not even dressed that nicely, not compared to you. He's wearing worn jeans and a blue plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a leather jacket flung over his stool.

He's soft, warmer around the edges than what you're used to. He's the kind of boy you pass up when you're younger and don't know any better, until he grows up devastating and you're still just a girl with an expensive haircut and extremely flexible hips.

"No, thank you," you say politely, watching his fingers flex around his glass. He has good hands, long elegant fingers and wide palms. You imagine what it would feel like, to have them between your thighs, and cross your legs.

You keep your eyes low, to hide your surprise at your thoughts. You haven't felt like this, that electric rush of attraction, in months. At least, not without a little help.

"Oh," he says, and he doesn't sound mad or hurt, just wistful and maybe a little disappointed. "Have a good night then."

"Wait." You stare at your own hand, which against your will has reached out to touch his wrist. "I mean, I'm meeting someone. It would be rude to accept a drink that I can't finish."

"Oh," he says, lower this time. "I see."

"Do you come here often?" you ask, tossing your hair, because you meet clients here from time to time, but you're sure you've never seen him before.

He shrugs. "Every once and awhile. When I have a bad day on the job."

"And what do you do?" Your voice is light, it's almost flirtatious. You're proud of yourself, making small talk with a stranger, but then again, it's low stakes and cocaine is buzzing in your head.

"I'm a cop."

Then everything is buzzing, your stomach turning to ice, and you almost miss the broad smile he's giving you.

"Detective Stilinski," he says, holding out his hand, a thin paper card between his fingers. "At your service."

"Lydia," you whisper, so shaken that you forget to get him a false name.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Lydia," he says, his palm heavy and warm against your skin, pressing his information into your hand.

Out of the corner of your eye you spy the man Erica sent you to meet; you recognize his face from the photo she texted you.

"I'm so sorry, I have to go. My...associate just arrived."

Your cheeks are flushed and your voice sounds unnaturally high, and oh god, he knows, _he knows_ , does he know?

But Detective Stilinski only gives you a good natured smile. "It's late for a business meeting."

You give him a helpless smile, the one that says, _who me, what could a little girl like me be doing wrong?_

"Maybe I'll see you around," you say, your voice lilting up at the end like you're asking, aware of how blatantly you're dodging his question.

"I hope so," he says, smooth and confident. His voice makes you think of crackling fire and smoke, you want to wrap it around yourself and go to sleep.

You are _fucked_

Erica's client is older, silver hair and musky cologne. You don't come when he fucks you, you never do, not with clients. But you imagine the detective's face and it's like having a secret, like something warm in your chest that makes the cold go away.

It's the beginning of the end, but you don't know it yet.

/

You can't get his face out of your head. You see him in crowds on the street, in line at Starbucks, at the gym. It's never him but your stomach tightens when you see boys like him, with floppy brown hair and long limbs.

He's a cop. He's a _cop_. It should scare you, but it doesn't.

You don't care, and _that_ scares you.

You don't go back to the hotel. You go to the W, the Mandarin, the Doubletree in midtown, but you stay away from the Orient.

You try, anyway.

You pick up at Aiden's. You don't fuck, haven't for a long time, which makes it easier. Strictly business. He wants you to stay and get high with him, but that tends to lead to sex so you leave him with a kiss on the cheek.

"Hey," he calls after you, leaning against the doorframe. "You hear anything about Peter coming back in town?"

You have to rest a hand on the cheap stucco wall for balance. "No," you say, trying to keep your voice from shaking. "Have you?"

Aiden shrugs. "Maybe."

"Aiden," you hiss, because it's _Peter_. Peter, who got you your first client. Peter who demanded an absurdly high percentage, Peter the man who haunts your dreams.

"I heard he was putting out feelers," Aiden says.

"And who'd you hear that from?"

Aiden's eyes are dark and shuttered. "Derek Hale."

/

You don't make it straight home. Your heart is doing a panicked drumbeat in your chest and your skin has broken out in a cold sweat. You can't handle Peter, the idea of Peter, like this.

You duck into the first Starbucks you pass because they have single bathrooms with locks on the doors. The first thing you do is set a timer on your phone for four minutes, just to be safe. You've heard stories about girls getting caught like this, management calling the police about loiterers hanging out in the bathrooms.

You have to be quick, but you can be quick. You can be anything, really, given the right motivation.

You lay out your supplies on the edge of the sink: lighter, foil, a straw. You take the powder Aiden sold you and dump it on the foil, careful not to spill. He likes to shoot it but you're afraid of needles. You clamp the straw between your teeth, hold the lighter under the foil, and suck up smoke.

It's better than sex. Better than chocolate, better than coke. It's like honey in your veins, like an orgasm but _better_.

All the ghosts go away.

Peter.

Alison.

All the pain goes away. _Everything_ goes away.

You put everything back in your bag, including the charred foil, slide your sunglasses over your face to hide your pinned pupils, and float back out onto the street.

/

You don't leave your apartment for three days. You lock all your windows and flip the deadlock on your front door. You live on orange juice and cereal eaten straight from the box. You sleep the day away and stay up all night, your hand curled around the handle of a kitchen knife.

Kira shows up on your doorstep when you stop answering your phone. You don't have any dates on the book and you can't exactly afford to take a break, not with your habits.

"Oh Lydia," Kira sighs, taking in your lank hair and trembling hands.

"I can't," you whisper. "I need a few more days, okay?"

"Not okay," Kira says cheerfully, pushing past you to let herself into your apartment. "I got us a job."

"Kira, I can't," you say, because you've got the shakes and you're exhausted. "I can't work like this."

Kira guides you firmly into the bathroom and you're too weak to resist. "It's an easy one. Promise."

She gets you into the shower, sits on the toilet lid while you struggle to wash your hair. She tells you the guy will pay good money. She says _it'll be easy, so easy_ , and helps you blow dry your hair and pick out complimenting lingerie.

You do lines together in the bathroom to get amped up. Kira hugs you, powdery soft against your skin, and whispers _thank you, Lydia_ in your ear. You feel better with her arms around you. You like Kira. She's sweet and she doesn't compete with you, she makes you feel like she cares. You pull it together for her.

She's not Allison, but no one will ever be Allison.

You take a cab to a penthouse in Soho, where a man pays you each five hundred dollars to kiss each other on his king sized bed for an hour. He just watches you, his mouth slightly open, hand moving loosely in his lap.

Kira's right. It's the easiest money you've ever made.

/

You go back to the the Orient.

You're freshly showered and wearing a dove grey sweater dress that's sexy but subtle, and tall leather boots. Your hair falls in soft waves around your shoulders and your lipstick is perfect.

You sit alone at the bar for two hours. You don't know if you even want him to come.

That's a lie, but you lie for a living. It's basically ingrained in your personality at this point.

You wait, sipping your drink, watching everyone that walks through your door, your heart sinking every time it's not him.

Maybe you're just lonely, you rationalize. Or maybe it was the way he looked at you. Like you were real. Not an object, not a tool, but a person.

And then, after you're ready to admit defeat and slink home, he walks through the door, leather jacket zipped up to protect from the chill.

He's beautiful, you realize, lithe and sexy, those big hands that could make you fall apart.

You want him. You _want_.

He sees you right away, his face lighting up as he saunters over to you.

"Lydia," he says, giving you a smile that makes the ice in your stomach melt.

"Detective." You give him a coy smile. You're in control, you haven't had a hit in three days, and he's looking at you like you're a sunset.

His hand is gentle on your shoulder. "How about that drink?"

You sit in a corner booth with a candle flickering on the tabletop. Stiles (it's a nickname, he explains with a flushed smile, because his first name is Polish and apparently unpronounceable) orders a bottle of red and a hummus plate. It's romantic, the rain outside, the candlelight making everything soft around the edges.

It makes you _ache_

He tells you he's a cop because his father was a sheriff, in Northern California, where he grew up. He went to BU. He moved to New York with his best friend Scott, who's a social worker, right out of college, worked his way up to detective quickly. He and Scott work together, they're basically brothers, have been since they were in a freak accident in high school and Scott almost died.

It's like you and Allison in reverse. You resist the urge to go to the bathroom and swallow the Xanax you have in your clutch. You take a large sip of wine instead, tell him how lucky he is, to have a friend like that.

"What about you?" he asks, balancing a slice of pita bread and his wine glass in one hand, the other one gesticulating as he talks. "Where did you go to school?"

"MIT." It's not a lie. Not exactly.

"Wow." He looks impressed and you feel an old flash of pride, at the girl you used to be. "So are you a rocket scientist or something?"

You give him a tight smile. "I work in the private sector."

He nods. "More money, right?"

"Yeah," you say breathlessly, your pulse racing.

What were you thinking, doing this? He's a cop. Everything you tell him will have to be a lie. Everything.

"Hey, are you okay?" His hand is wonderfully warm and heavy on your shoulder.

"What?" you say, rather stupidly.

"You look nervous," he says gently. His thumb brushes over your neck and you shiver.

"I'm sorry," you apologize, looking down at your glass. "I haven't done this in a while."

"Hey." His thumb is under your chin, coaxing you to look at him. "For the record, I think you're doing great."

You flush. "I think you're doing better."

Stiles chuckles, looking delighted. "Really?"

"You're close with your dad, you have an awesome best friend, you have a respectable job. And good taste in wine."

"You're beautiful," he counters, so matter of fact that it shocks you. It's been a long time since that happened, since you've been complimented just for the sake of it, not to manipulate or coerce you.

"I'm also smart," you say, managing a wink.

He laughs. "I don't doubt that for a second."

When you leave he guides you to the door with his hand on the small of your back. He hails you a cab, holding your elbow with his other hand so you don't slip on the wet pavement.

"Do you like Italian?" he asks, opening the cab door.

"Yes," you say, because you could drown in eyes like that, because you want to pull off his shirt to see how far down those moles go.

"Have dinner with me," he says, the rain making his eyelashes clump. He looks like a star, and you're falling, lightheaded. "Divorare? It's in the-"

"East Village," you finish for him.

He smiles, thumb running across your forearm. "Tuesday. Nine sound good?"

"Okay," you say, because you've gone starry eyed, you're imagining his wrist flexing around way more than a forkful of noodles.

You forget he's a cop, you forget you're supposed to be afraid of him.

All you see are those golden eyes, his warm hands. He hugs you goodbye and he feels like some sensation you almost forget exists, something that goes bone deep.

He feels safe. You want to fall asleep in his arms, you want him to take you to his apartment and hold you all night.

He kisses you on the cheek and shuts the door for you when you slide into the cab. You watch him out the window as the car drives away, looking invincible against the wind.


	2. My Tongue Still Misbehaves and it Keeps Digging My Own Grave

Derek Hale is standing outside your apartment door.

You consider, for one brief fleeting moment, running back down the hall and into the elevator. But you're wearing your stupid leather boots with little heels, and his hearing is better than a dog's.

Besides, running would make you look guilty.

"Lydia." He's doing his male model thing, leaning causally against the wall, tight leather jacket layered over a tighter v-neck.

Once upon a time you thought Derek Hale was beautiful, with those green eyes and full lips, his body a hard wall of muscle.

Now he looks like a weapon, something designed to stretch and break you apart.

"Hale." You make yourself look annoyed, not afraid, one hand on your hip.

"Where've you been?" he asks, like you're supposed to be expecting him.

"Out."

"Come on," he says. "This doesn't have to be difficult."

You widen your eyes at him, holding your key between your knuckles like a blade. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Jesus Christ." He shakes his head. "I knew you were ballsy, but flat out stupid-"

"Are you insulting my intelligence?" you ask sharply, pushing past him to unlock your door.

"Stealing from Peter would make you very stupid, so yes, Lydia, I suppose I am."

"I didn't steal anything." It's not stealing if it's yours.

Derek looms over you. He could crush you in five seconds flat, push his arm like a steel bar over your throat until you crumple in an airless heap on the floor.

"Just give it to me and I'll make sure Peter leaves you alone."

"Like you've ever managed to keep a leash on him," you snap.

He grins at you. His eyes glint in the dim hallway light; you see knives reflected in his pupils. "So it was you."

"Now why would I do that?" you ask. "I'm doing quite well for myself, no thanks to you."

Derek snorts. "Kira's no Peter."

"She gets me work."

He takes a step closer, so you're flat against the door. "What about protection?"

"Like you protected me?" you hiss.

He reaches out and you force yourself not to flinch when he brushes a strand of hair off your cheek. "Is that why you did it?" he asks softly. "Revenge?"

"Don't you have better things to do than harass me?"

Derek's eyes narrow but he takes a step back. "Maybe."

"Good," you say, and make a shooing motion at him. "Run along."

"This isn't over Lydia."

"You and I both know your loser uncle got run out of town. Shame to see the same happen to you."

Derek looks pissed. "Watch your mouth."

You raise an eyebrow. "What are you going to do? Call the cops? Maybe they'd like to know how I got this."

You pull up your sweater to show him the thin white scar on your side, the one Peter gave you the night before he left town.

Derek practically growls at you. "You're playing with fire, little girl."

"And don't I know it, honey. Be careful. You wouldn't want to get burned."

You let yourself into your apartment and slam the door in his face.

Allison is waiting on your couch, your worn thin March copy of Vogue open in her lap. "Derek Hale, really?"

"I'm not in the mood Alli," you sigh, tossing your keys and your purse on your faux designer hall table.

Allison puts the magazine down. "Someone's got to look out for you."

"I liked it better when you were my best friend."

"If wishes were horses-"

"I'm no beggar," you snap, yanking off your boots. "Where've you been, anyway?"

Allison shrugs. "Around."

"Oh," you sneer, like _that_ explains anything.

Allison's looking at the door. "It's happening again, isn't it?"

"Don't worry. I've got it under control."

"That's what you said the first time."

You go to the kitchen and get a fresh sheet of foil. "If you came here just to lecture me I'm not interested."

Allison looks nervous. "Maybe you need a lecture."

You dangle the foil like a threat. "Maybe you should go away."

"Lydia."

"I could make you."

Allison frowns. "That's not very nice."

You laugh. "Since when am I nice?"

"You used to be," Allison says feebly. "Before-"

"Stop," you demand. "I really don't get why you feel the need to show up unannounced and lay a guilt trip on me."

Allison's face softens. "That's not what I'm doing."

"Could have fooled me." You get the rest of Aiden's powder from the baggie buried in the bottom of your vanity drawer, under your makeup, and lay it out next to the foil on the coffee table.

"Lydia." Allison plops down on the couch next to you, watching you set up.

You could snort it but smoking is better. Shooting is best, you've heard, a total rush, but you bruise easy and that's bad for business. You grab your lighter and straw from your purse and lay it out next to the pile of power covering the foil.

"Lydia, please." Allison's voice sounds faint.

It's the drugs, it's bad energy, she claims. You don't know if that's true exactly, but you've done this enough times that you can't deny the effect they have on her.

Isn't that why everyone does drugs? To exorcise their ghosts?

"Anything else you need to get off your chest?" you ask her, carefully picking up the sheet of foil so you don't spill.

Allison looks sad. "You break my heart with this shit, you know. Every time."

You hold the flame under the foil, watch the powder sizzle and dance, straw between your lips. "You broke mine first."

You take a hit and moan, the drug slamming through you. When you turn around again she's gone.

/

You don't let Kira schedule anyone for you on Tuesday. When she pouts you let her book you solid through the weekend, which you hate, but this is New York City, where money falls from rich men's pockets like rain during hurricane season.

You don't get to pass up weekends with those men. You have rent to pay, your cellphone, you need money for cab fare, and you need to re-up from Aiden. Especially if you're working all weekend.

"He better be worth it," Kira says, but she's smiling.

She's happy for you, she knows you haven't been with anyone like that, not since Aiden. He doesn't even count, you think, not really.

You were both young and beautiful, both caught up in Peter's web. You had an understanding, about each other. It was easy. It was sex, and drugs, and shame. You didn't love each other, but you felt safe together.

He supplied for Peter's girls, gave them a discount, because of the sheer number of customers Peter brought in. Aiden made a killing back then.

That was before Peter got run out of town, back when he was running girls like you, sending you all to Aiden, who sold you powders and pills to keep you happy, keep you compliant.

Sleeping with him was the kind of fatal mistake you make when you're young and not thinking about anything except getting through the day.

You can't afford to make mistakes anymore.

You follow your usual date ritual. Mani/pedi, blowout, squeeze into a black bodycon Alexander Wang dress you got half off at Sak's. Your eyeliner is perfect and you have on a fresh coat of red lipstick.

You look beautiful, and expensive.

You're so nervous you end up getting to Divorare fifteen minutes early. The hostess checks you in and you stand in a little alcove by a fireplace while you wait, fingering the bouquet of flowers in the mason jar on the mantle.

"You look like a painting." His voice is warm like honey in your veins. "Girl waits with flowers."

When you turn your heart jumps in your chest. Stiles is wearing nice slacks and a charcoal button down, the sleeves rolled up to display sinewy forearms.

"Hi," you say, feeling dazed.

The firelight makes his eyes glow. "You look gorgeous."

Your cheeks flush. When did a compliment from a man make you unravel like this?

"Thank you," you say, taking careful steps in your Jimmy Choos. "You clean up nicely."

He gives you a shy smile. "I'm glad you came."

Your confidence comes back, and when you say _me too_ , you mean it. It's the first time in a long time that you've told a man the truth.

It feels good.

You find out over fresh cut linguine and red wine that the person you have the most in common with out of anyone you've ever met is a detective from across the country.

He's an only child, like you. You both love old detective movies, science fiction, and Chinese food.

He's witty, talks a mile a minute about his best friend Scott and how comic books will always be better than the movies, because the comic books are _pure_.

"The Notebook is my favorite movie," you say flatly, and then laugh when his face contorts in horror.

He lives in a walk up in the East Village, has a good job. When you ask him why he decided to be a detective he talks about honor and nobility, about protecting people who can't protect themselves.

"How are you still single?" you ask him, your fingers loosely wrapped around your second glass of wine.

He shrugs. "I don't know. I work a lot." Stile's lips curve up. "It's hard to meet girls who as pretty and smart as you, you know."

You smile. "You think I'm pretty?"

He chuckles. "Come on. You know you're pretty." He leans in a little, his eyes locking on yours. "But you're also smart, miss MIT grad, and that's fucking hot."

Holy shit.

By the time he's paid the check (at his absolute insistence) you can't keep your hands off him. He kisses you outside the restaurant, one hand cupping your cheek as he leans in.

You sigh into his mouth, feeling drunk on him and the wine, his hand holding your face like it's something precious.

He kisses you slow, and deep. He's like the ocean, something huge and powerful that could pull you under until you drown.

"I really think," you breathe, when he finally pulls away, "that you should ask me for my number."


	3. Train This Chaos Turn it into Light

You go to Aiden's Friday afternoon before your first overnight of the weekend. Kira booked you all three nights. Overnights are good because they pay the most, but they require an ungodly amount of stamina.

He answers the door in sweatpants, no shirt, and gives you a hazy smile.

"Hey Lydia," he says, leaning against the doorframe.

"I have three overnights in a row," you say without preamble.

Aiden nods and steps back to let you in. "I've got good coke."

"Sold," you say coolly, and flop down on his couch to watch him measure it out.

"Want any downers?" he asks, handing you a small plastic bag full of white powder.

"No, this is fine."

He raises an eyebrow. "You'll be up all night."

"That's the point."

Aiden grins and walks you to the door. "Pleasure doing business with you."

You smile and kiss his cheek. "As always."

"Hey Lydia? Is everything...have you heard anything?"

You shrug. "Derek showed up to say hi the other week."

He catches your wrist in his long fingers. "You okay?"

You give him a tight smile. "I can handle Derek."

Aiden nods. "Just be careful, alright?"

You flash him a toothy smile. "Aren't I always?"

/

Friday night you have Miguel, a Venezuelan who flies to New York on his jet once a month to meet with the head of the American branch of his company. And to see you.

You play loud music and get drunk, dance around the room in your underwear. Miguel is fun, he likes to party, and he isn't half in love with you, like some of your clients.

You let him do lines off your naked body, but only do one yourself; it's very against policy to partake with the clients. But you've known Miguel a long time and it's only one line. Kira doesn't have to know.

You fuck against the glass window overlooking the park and do a little more coke, then fuck again in the shower.

In the morning you go down on him and once you're dressed he gives you a pair of Charles Jourdan pumps that he bought just for you in Tokyo.

You slip out of the hotel, sunglasses hiding your face, and slink into a cab back to your apartment, where you crawl into bed and sleep for six hours until you have to get ready for your second date.

You meet Jackson Whittemore, one of your regulars, at his room at the W. He's a trust fund kid, spoiled and bitter, but he's gorgeous and more importantly, loaded.

He's aggressive when you have sex. He pulls your hair, pins your wrists above your head, orders you to beg for it. But when it's over he talks tearily, his head in your lap, about being adopted, how no one really loves him, how lost he feels.

You pity him, because you understand loneliness, feeling not good enough no matter how hard you try.

He holds you in bed after, orders you rooms service and puts on a movie. You fall asleep at some point and when you wake up in the morning there's two grand on the nightstand, and Jackson's gone.

/

Allison watches you get ready Sunday night. She lounges on your bed while you sit at your vanity, curling your hair. Allison's got all your cash spread out on the bed, organized into piles.

"Four thousand," Allison announces. "Damn Lydia, how much do you charge a night?"

"Two thousand for an all-nighter." You spray your curls with salt spray and scrunch them with your fingers.

Allison whistles. "You must be good."

You blow her a kiss in the mirror. "Jealous?"

Allison flushes. "Just curious."

You take out your liquid liner and start working on your eyes. "It's not that big a deal. You make the right sounds, give them what they want. It's not like men's desires are difficult to intuit."

Allison is staring. "You don't even enjoy it?"

You shrug. "It's work. It's not supposed to be for pleasure."

"Is that why you're doing this?" Allison plucks your bag of coke out of your purse.

"I'm tired," you say tartly. "You try getting fucked five times in two nights. Better than spin class."

"Jesus, Lydia."

"Is that judgement I hear?"

Allison frowns. "I'm just worried about you."

"Obviously, why else would you be here?"

Allison catches your eyes in the mirror. "Do you want me to go?"

"No need to get all dramatic. I'm fine."

"Lydia-"

"Can we talk about this later?" you ask. "I have a date."

/

You spend Sunday night at the plaza with a new client Kira matched you with. He's a friend of a friend of one of Erica's clients. He's married, but he's good looking enough and has a bottle of Veuve Cliquot chilling in a bucket.

You smile, coy but not brazen, and introduce yourself as Ophelia, the name Kira uses for you on the website.

New clients are tricky, because you have to quickly discover what they're looking for, or rather, who.

The young virgin, the whore, the sex kitten, the mother, the daughter, the student, the teacher-you become a projection of whatever kind of woman they desire.

That's your job.

It's what pays your rent, allows for the designer clothes, the drugs, your entire lifestyle.

You make your living being a man's fantasy.

Your new client's name is Jonathan. He's a finance guy. His wife used to model for Victoria's Secret before she had their first child, and now she wears yoga pants every day and sleeps with her tennis instructor.

Jonathan doesn't seem too torn up about it. He wants to have fun with someone that isn't his uptight wife who hates giving head.

He brought his own coke, talks you into doing lines. You politely explain that you don't do drugs with your clients (Miguel is an exception but you don't even know this guy. You know to be careful with new ones).

He begs you to, waves the bag with a taunting smile. You're not allowed, Kira would have a fit.

You smile and say you can make an exception, because he reeks of money, your overnight fee in crip hundred dollar bills stacked on the nightstand. He's a good prospect for a regular.

He cuts you line after line, until your heart is pounding and your skin is hot. You're in love with The Plaza, Jonathan, the coke, all of it.

He puts porn on the huge flatscreen and strips you of your lingerie. You've never done this much before and you feel out of control, it's like you have too much energy and you have to move, you have to get it out.

You fuck for hours, until you're slick from sweat and your knees are raw. It's not enough, you cling to him and moan _more, more_. He laughs and cuts more lines, and fucks you again. It feels good, you let it feel good.

You surrender.

In the morning you shower in the huge bathroom, collect your cash and slip back into your lace slip and trench coat. You kiss Jonathan goodbye, tell him you enjoyed his company.

He gives you a loopy smile when he gives you the money. 

You're in the lobby when your phone rings. You dig it out of your purse, hesitating when you see the name displayed on the screen.

_Stiles._

"Hello?" you answer, trying to sound awake and alert.

"How do you feel about breakfast?"

"Right now?"

"Can you meet me in midtown?"

"Actually," you say, back tracking down the hall toward the Palm Cafe. "How about you meet me where I am? My treat."

/

"What is that you do again?" Stiles asks, making a comical face at the prices on the breakfast menu. "Engineers make bank, right?"

You feel a flash of panic, that you've misstepped inviting him to the Plaza, that you've made a mistake. You should have met him at a shitty diner, you shouldn't have asked him to meet you here.

"Actually, I'm in client relations, you know, keeping them happy with us, making sure all their needs are met," you ramble, ignoring the cold pit in your stomach.

Stiles gives you a sleepy smile and rubs his eyes. "Sorry. I just need some coffee. I had a rough night."

You smile gracefully and order gruyere omelettes, coffee, and breakfast potatoes for you both from Javi, who winks at you and brings mimosas to have with your coffee.

"Now this is brunch," Stiles says gleefully, holding out his glass to toast with you. "You come to the Plaza a lot?"

"Gotta wine and dine the clients," you say flippantly. You're coming down from all the coke and you're in the beginning stages of a major headache.

Stiles grins. "This is way better than the Cosmic Diner. Don't tell Scott. It's kind of our place."

"And here I was under the impression you were single."

"He can't fulfill all my needs," Stiles quips, and you find yourself laughing.

"It's really nice to see you again," he says, reaching across the table to see your hand. "I had a great time the other night."

You flush, looking down at your linked hands. "Me too."

"I wasn't sure you'd pick up so early," he says. "I was just coming off a night shift."

"Is that why you had a bad night?"

A shadow crosses over his face. "We don't have to talk about that."

"I don't mind," you say, stirring cream into your coffee. "Unless you don't want to."

Stiles spears a breakfast potato with his fork. "I got a call from New York City General about a patient that got dumped in the ER. A fourteen year old girl. She told the nurse that her boyfriend ran a train on her."

"That's horrible," you say quietly, feeling a wave of nausea. You know it happens, especially to young girls, girls who don't have a decent guy running them. Even Peter wasn't that sick.

"By the time I got there she freaked and recanted her statement. I spent two hours with this girl, and she told me everything was consensual, no one made her do anything, money wasn't exchanged. She took back everything."

You frown. "Why would she do that?"

Stiles shrugs. "She got scared. I see it all the time. Girls get a chance to get out but they're so used to what they're doing, they get too scared to leave. Ever heard of Stockholm Syndrome?"

You nod. You feel sick, exposed. This is his job? To rescue girls like you?

"It's so frustrating," he says, an edge to his voice. "I can help them. There's a whole team of people who can help them, people like me, and Scott, social workers. But they don't trust us. The guys control the girls, get them hooked on drugs. They start to see us as the enemy. I see it all the time. They'd rather stay then let us help them."

He looks upset, and your heart feels like it's beating out of your chest.

The thought happens so quickly you almost deny it altogether.

You could get out.

You sigh, and squeeze his hand. "People learn to love their chains."

Stiles gives you a crooked smile. "You watch Game of Thrones?"

You cock your head. "Don't you?"

"Lydia, I seriously think I'm falling in love with you."

You squeeze his hand again. "It's not your fault. Men fall in love with me all the time."

/

Aiden answers the door with a knowing smile on his face. "Can't sleep?"

"Don't be an asshole," you mutter, pushing past him into the apartment.

"Coming down?" he smirks.

"Shut up."

Aiden rolls a joint for you, lets you smoke on his couch while he finds some pills for you to bring home. The pot helps, you don't feel like crying anymore, you aren't so freaked by your revelation.

You could get out. Stiles could get you out.

You take one of the pills Aiden gives you in the cab on the way back to your apartment, timing it so it hits just as you're getting into bed.

Allison climbs in next to you under the covers and strokes your hair.

"Stiles seems nice," she whispers.

"Yeah," you sniff.

Allison kisses your forehead. "Don't be sad, Lydia."

"I don't feel good, Alli."

She wraps her arms around your waist. "I know. You're just coming down. You'll feel better when you wake up."

"Stay with me until I fall asleep?"

Allison nods seriously and holds you until you drift off in her arms.


	4. There is no Peace that I've Found so Far

You fall into a rhythm. You stay clean, you work, and you don't even think the words Peter Hale.

You see your regular clients during the day, make frequent trips to see Aiden, and you see Stiles.

Actually you see a lot of Stiles.

He takes you to the MoMa. You get hot chocolate and do the high line in Chelsea with all the tourists. He kisses you in line at brunch, on the sidewalk, while he's buying you tacos from a food truck.

He's a tactical kind of guy, you're realizing. His hand is always reaching towards you, skimming your hip or the small of your back.

You haven't slept together yet. But god, do you want to.

/

You're coming back from getting pedicures with Kira one day when you see Derek again.

He's sitting on a bench across the street from your building. You freeze on the sidewalk, hands curling into defensive fists, but he just sits there. Watching you.

And then he pushes his sunglasses up and fucking _winks_.

Asshole.

You flip him off and walk inside, the back of your neck burning.

Allison's sitting in the living room window when you unlock your apartment, her forehead wrinkled.

"I don't like it," she announces, staring across the street at Derek.

"Don't worry so much," you tell her, slipping your shoes off and heading to the kitchen to open a bottle of wine.

"I think you should tell Stiles."

You almost drop the wine bottle. "I barely know the guy."

"Lydia, it's been a month almost. You know him."

"I haven't even slept with him yet!"

Allison appears in the kitchen doorway. Today she's wearing skinny jeans and her black jacket, her hair braided Katniss-style over one shoulder. "You haven't slept with Stiles yet?"

"We're taking it slow," you say defensively.

"Oh my god." Allison starts to laugh. "Oh my god, Lydia."

"Shut up!" you whine. "It's not funny, Alli!"

"Oh my god, you love him!" Allison exclaims.

"I do not!"

"Then why haven't you slept with him yet?"

"Because it's complicated, okay?"

Allison raises an eyebrow at you. "So uncomplicated it."

"Oh gee, thanks Alli, that's so helpful."

"Lydia," Allison says forcefully. "You can't do this forever."

You forget about a glass and chug straight from the bottle. "I'm not going to be around forever."

/

You see Jackson on his regular night. He's in a bad mood, fucks you up against the wall with your wrists pinned behind your back.

He orders you to beg for it and you wonder about boys like him, boys who are so insecure they have to pay you to make them feel wanted.

When it's over he can't even look at you. You wonder which one of you hates yourself more.

You sleep at home that night, curled up in a ball under the covers, cradling your bruised wrists.

Alli doesn't show up. You don't expect her to. You know what she thinks of Jackson.

For some reason it's hard to stop seeing him. It's like seeing yourself, someone beautiful and charming who was broken into pieces inside.

/

You meet Scott McCall on a sleeting Friday night at Stile's favorite Chinese place in the West Village. He's adorable, big puppy dog eyes and a warm smile.

Allison would have liked him, you think, when he gives you a bear hug instead of shaking your hand when Stiles introduces you.

The two of them are adorable. They finish each other's sentences, laugh about inside jokes and tease you in a way that makes you feel included.

Everything goes fine until Stiles leaves the table to go to the bathroom. You reach across your plate to take a spring roll and across from you Scott gasps, staring down at your arm.

Your sleeve has ridden up, revealing a vivid set of bruises on your wrist.

 _Jackson_.

"Lydia." Scott looks worried. Very worried. "What happened?"

"I fell," you say lamely. "My heel caught on a sidewalk grate."

Scott grasps your wrist and wraps his hand around your forearm. His fingers line up almost perfectly from the marks Jackson left on your white skin. _Your hand here_.

"Lydia-"

"It wasn't him," you blurt out. "Scott, it wasn't-"

"I know that." Scott looks horrified. "Lydia-"

"Please," you say hoarsely. "Please, Scott, you can't tell him."

Scott slides his hand down to squeeze your fingers. "Lydia, are you in trouble?"

"No," you hiss. "I'm fine, it was an accident, I swear."

Scott looks unconvinced. "Lydia, I'm a social worker. I hear things like that all the time."

"Scott." Stiles will be back any minute. "It won't happen again, I promise. Just don't tell Stiles, please."

"He's my best friend, Lydia."

"I know that. I'm asking you to trust me."

"I just met you," Scott says warily.

"Scott." You're begging now, humiliated. "Please."

He pats the back of your hand. "Promise me it won't happen again."

"I promise."

"If this happens again-"

"It won't. Thank you, Scott, thank you."

"Lydia." Scott leans in to whisper in your ear. "If you hurt him I swear to god, it'll be the last thing you ever do."

 _Yeah_ , you think somberly. Allison would've liked Scott.

/

When Stiles calls you the next day you don't pick up.

 _Too dangerous_ , you think, watching your bruises change from purple-blue to an ugly green-yellow.

He can't know. He can't find out.

Outside your building Derek Hale sits on a bench, reading the Wall Street journal. Not only is he an asshole, he's a pretentious one.

Alli hasn't showed up, not since that night with Jackson. You're kind of worried about that too. She always comes back, eventually, but you feel lonely, like there's a hole in the center of your chest.

You end up at Aiden's.

He drinks you in, your sloppy ponytail, your shaking hands, your ragged bottom lip. Eyes going dark with recognition.

Everyone breaks eventually. It's the life, it wears you down. Sometimes it happens in one big smash, but usually it goes more like this. Tiny painful cracks that get superglued back together until they inevitably break again.

Aiden holds out his hands to you. "C'mere," he coaxes, reaching for you. "Come inside."

You let him pull you through the doorway, falling into his chest. He holds you, his skin hot against your cheek. The tears you've been holding back all day spill over, you're just so tired.

You're so tired.

"Shh," he murmurs, rubbing your back. "It's okay. I can help you, let me help you Lydia."

He deposits you on his couch. There's some show playing on tv, guys in leather jackets shooting at monsters with shotguns.

Aiden crushes a pill and cuts it into lines on the back of a fitness magazine. "Here," he says, passing it to you with a rolled ten dollar bill. "This'll make it all better."

You hesitate, thinking about whiskey brown eyes, large hands holding you like you're something precious.

Then you look down at your bruised wrists, your used body.

He won't want you, you think, not when he finds out. Why would he want you?

"Lydia." Aiden's singing your name, pupils pinned. "Come on, Lydia."

You bend down and snort powder up your nose.

/

You call Kira in the morning and tell her you can't see Jackson anymore.

She doesn't ask why, just if you think there's a girl that would be a good replacement.

Because Jackson has money, and you're all hungry for it, and he's not really dangerous. You just can't handle him anymore.

Hayden, you say. Send Hayden. She's young, which will appeal to Jackson, but she's tougher than steel and doesn't take shit from anybody, especially rich pretty boys who think they're entitled to anything.

"What about sending Erica?" Kira says, laughing into the phone.

"Oh god no," you drawl. "I want to teach him a lesson, not traumatize him."

"Everything else okay?" Kira asks. "How're things going with that guy?"

You sigh, stretching out on your bed. "Do you think I can do it?"

"Do what?"

"Have both." Stiles, your job, your life. Your ghosts.

"Lydia, are you thinking of quitting?"

You're quiet for a long time, and then you say, "I don't know."

/

You call Stiles and make up a ridiculous story. Last minute business trip, Atlanta, your phone died, you're so sorry, you'll call him as soon as you get back.

He believes you, which makes you feel even worse.

"That's my girl," Allison says, spread out on your bed. "You always were such a good liar."

"Fuck you, Alli," you say, compulsively rubbing arnica gel on your bruises.

Allison smiles.

/

You call Stiles back three days later.

He gives you the address of his apartment, and when you show up he has a glass of wine ready to push into your hand and is cooking something that smells amazing.

"What is all this?" you ask in awe, watching him run around his little kitchen, a dishtowel thrown over one shoulder. It's not fair, no guy should be allowed to be this cute.

Stiles gives you an impish grin. "Scott's not sleeping here tonight."

You slink up to him, wrap your hand around the back of his neck. "Oh really?"

Those long eyelashes flutter and you swear your heart jumps in your chest. "Scott's with Isaac tonight."

You sip your wine and lick your lips, watch his eyes track your movements. "Who's Isaac?"

"Who cares," Stiles mutters, and crushes his mouth to yours.

Your mouth is sweet from the wine. He runs his tongue along the seam of your lips and your nails dig into his neck.

"Easy," Stiles murmurs against your mouth, reaching up to remove your hand and linking it through his. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Good," you whisper. "I don't want you to."

"Okay then." The matter settled, he sets you down in a chair and refills your wine.

He cooks risotto with roasted chicken and a green salad, keeps your glass full while you eat.

"Are you trying to impress me?" you ask coyly, running your foot up his calf under the table.

He grins. "Is it working?"

You smile. "Maybe."

"Maybe?"

You get up from your chair and cross to him, pulling him up to stand with you. "Stiles?"

He swallows hard, hands going to your waist. "Yes, Lydia?"

"Show me your room."

He exhales and bends down so his lips are mere millimeters from yours. "You sure?"

If you weren't before, you are now. "I want you," you whisper. "Don't you want me?"

He groans, and in a surprise move slips his hand under your thighs to haul you up, your legs going around his waist.

"I'm taking that as a yes," you say breathlessly.

"Good," he says, and walks you out of the kitchen and around the hallway to his room.

He sets you down on a bed, the moonlight from the window filtering in and bathing you in silver.

"Jesus," he mutters, kneeling in front on her you on the foot of the bed. "So gorgeous, Lydia."

You pull him down by the collar of his shirt for a kiss. He's bent over you, your hips caged in by his knees, kissing you like he wants to consume you.

He pulls his mouth away, his hands covering your bare shoulders. "Can I take off your dress?"

You nod, shivering. When was the last time someone asked you first, gave you any sense of agency?

He pulls your dress down and over your hips, leaving you in a black lace strapless bra and thong. You curl into him, where he's warm and solid. Remembering that first night outside the Orient, how you wanted to fall asleep right here, in his arms.

"Are you cold?" he murmurs, rubbing your arms and pulling you down to lie next to him on the bed.

"I'm a little nervous," you confess, and press your mouth to his throat.

He makes a noise, one hand coming up to tangle in your hair. "We can go slow."

You tilt your head back to look into kind eyes glowing in the moonlight. "It's okay. I trust you."

He kisses you like a promise.


	5. Please Just Save Me From This Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm late with the update guys, it tends to happen when I'm working on a bunch of stories at the same time! Hope you enjoy the new chapter ;)

The first time Stiles sleeps over at your apartment you wake up in the middle of the night sitting straight up in bed, a scream caught in the back of your throat.

"Lydia?" he mumbles. "Hey, what's wrong?"

You're sweaty, hair sticking to the back of your neck, too afraid to open your mouth because you really think you might cry, and if you start you'll never stop.

"Hey," he says again, and sits up to put a hand on your back. "Are you okay?"

Allison is perched on your vanity watching you. She purses her lips and presses her index finger to them.

 _Shh_.

You nod shakily and turn into Stiles, press your face into his shoulder. You love his body, all lean muscle and heat. You feel safe here, with him, his hand pressing you into him as he lays back down.

He rubs your back, eyes searching your face for an explanation. When they come up empty he asks, in the gentlest voice, "Did you have a nightmare?"

You swallow, reaching out to grip his hipbones to anchor yourself. "Yeah," you say faintly.

He drops a kiss on your head. "Wanna talk about it?"

You shake your head, feel your heart do a little shuddering dance in your chest.

Allison's right. If you tell him he'll hate you, and then you'll have no one.

"It's okay," he whispers, running long fingers up and down your spine. "I'm here, you're okay."

You blink up at him and he smiles at you, full of adoration and goodness. He's going to hate you, you know it, and you're too selfish to let him go before anyone gets hurt.

"Why are you so good to me?" you whisper.

He looks puzzled. "Why wouldn't I be?"

You're too afraid to answer him, and his hand comes up to cup your cheek. "Lydia," he says. "As cool as this mystery girl vibe thing you have going on is, you're going to have to talk to me eventually."

You can see the scales being balanced. On one side there's Allison, the drugs, your private shame, everything dark and ugly that you hide.

And on the other side, Stiles. Possibility, stability. Love.

"Please," you say hoarsely, gripping him tight. "Please, Stiles..."

"Hey, it's okay," he reassures you. "I'm not asking you to write me a memoir here."

"I'm trying," you whisper. "I'm not good at this."

He frowns and tucks back a lock of your hair. "At what?"

"This." You gesture to the two of you. "I haven't...I haven't done this, like this, with someone. I haven't felt like this before."

"You've had boyfriends though."

You study his face, those beautiful eyes and his soft mouth. You place one hand over his heart, so he understands. "Not like you."

That makes him smile. "Yeah?"

You wrap a leg around his thigh so he's right up against you. "Yeah."

His eyes go dark. "Lydia..."

"Can you...can you be patient with me?" You tilt your head back, exposing your throat, and he makes a little growling noise.

"I guess...I can do that." He rolls his hips experimentally and you gasp as pressure pulses between your legs.

You rock into him, moaning at the little flicker of heat that sparks in your belly. "I just need more time," you murmur.

He rolls on top of you and you spread your legs so he can settle in the cradle of your hips, pushing against you, teasing you. "Sweetheart," he mutters, doing something with his hips that make you gasp. "You can have all the time in the world."

/

You're watching The Maltese Falcon on Scott and Stile's giant flat screen tv one night when someone starts pounding on the door.

You jump and Stiles vaults off the couch to stand in front of you, shoulders tense.

"Stiles!" It's a girl's voice, weak but determined. "Stiles, please, let me in!"

"Oh shit," Stiles mutters, running a hand through his hair as he crosses the apartment.

"What's going on, who is that?" He never mentioned a crazy ex-girlfriend, but it's not like you talk about the men in your life.

"Open the fucking door," mystery girl pleads.

Stiles unlocks the door, looking pissed off. "We've talked about this, you can't just waltz up here _yelling_..."

A girl steps through the threshold and for a second you think you're hallucinating, you're on Aiden's couch and this whole thing is some kind of extended mushroom trip because there is no way-

The girl freezes and stares at you. "Lydia?"

There's no way that the girl your _cop boyfriend_ just let into his apartment is Malia Tate.

She's taller than you remember, long skinny legs in cut-off denim shorts and tall black boots, thin cotton black tee shirt strategically cut to show off her waist. Her hair is chopped to above her collarbone and she's pale under her tan.

Stile's focus shifts rapidly between the two of you until he finally exclaims, "What the fuck is going on?"

Malia wobbles on her feet, eyes unfocused, and you realize as she stares at you, your clean hair and your silk top, that she's in a completely (most likely substance-related) altered state.

"What are you doing here?" Malia croaks. You wonder if you look the same way she does, like she's seeing a ghost.

"Wait, you two know each other?" Stiles looks completely baffled.

"She was my tutor," Malia slurs, and stumbles back into Stiles, who catches her by the shoulders. "Right, Lydia?"

You bite back a hysterical giggle. "Yeah Malia, I remember."

Malia's eyes roll halfway back in her head. "Yeah, I bet you do. I was the best...the best..."

"Malia!" Stiles says sharply. "Malia, what are you doing here?"

Malia makes a sound like a wounded animal. "I'm sorry," she rasps. "I can't do it anymore, Stiles, I can't, I can't."

Stiles turns her and cups her cheek, peering into her eyes, grimacing at what he sees. "Malia, we're getting so close-"

"No." You watch Malia grip Stiles by the shoulders. "I'm done. Get me out."

Stiles closes his eyes for a second and when he opens them you can't read his expression. "Are you sure?"

Malia glances back at you, like she's making sure you're really there, or like she's asking your permission.

You cared about her once, took her under your wing. Taught her tricks, taught her how to flirt, how to apply lipstick. Brushed her hair while she nestled into you and whispered nightmares into your ear about Mommy and Daddy and the things they did to her, the things she watched them do to other people.

Malia Tate, your protégée, the girl you trained and whipped into shape because you wanted her to survive and it was only way. You thought you were helping her. You wanted to help her.

Peter used to call her his golden girl.

Malia starts to cry, this horrible snuffling noise like she's trying to choke it back but she can't. "Please Stiles. I'm so scared and I want to stop, make it stop-"

"Hey, hey, it's okay." You watch Stiles put his arms around her and hold her to his chest, letting her cry into his shirt. "I promised I'd help you when you were ready, remember? I understand. We're going to get you some help."

He mouths the words _I'm sorry_ at you over Malia's head, crooning nonsense into her ear. You wonder if anyone's ever held Malia like that.

Wonders if she's ever been comforted by someone, like a parent.

Like she's beloved.

You don't know what to do so you press your fingertips to your lips and hold them out to him, like a blessing.

/

"How do you know her?" you whisper to Stiles later, after the two of you watch Malia cry herself to sleep on his couch.

Stiles pulls you into the kitchen and gets a beer out of the fridge. "You want one?"

"Stiles."

"I think I have a white..." He produces a half empty bottle of Riesling and pours you a generous glassful.

"Are you going to answer my question?"

Stiles makes a pained expression and takes a long pull on the bottle. "She's my CI."

You stare at him. "She's your _what_?"

"Criminal informant."

"I know what a CI is, Stiles. How the fuck did _Malia_ become your CI?"

This is so bad, this is _so_ bad.

Stiles squints at you. "How do you know her again?"

"Are you deflecting?" you deflect, _ha_ , while trying not to vomit all over his floor.

Malia Tate, in your boyfriend's apartment, the boyfriend who isn't supposed to know that Peter exists.

If Stiles knows about Malia, he has to know about Peter.

Your whole body goes cold at the thought, at how fragile your house of cards is.

Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose. "No, Lydia, it's just complicated. I try not to bring work into my personal life, and I'm honestly a little freaked out by the fact that she knows you."

He's going to find out. He's going to find out all about you now, and it's because of _Malia_ , a loose thread you'd forgotten about.

God damn Peter Hale and his fucking offspring.

You don't know what to say so you just chug your wine, watching Stiles watch you drink.

Eventually he sighs and walks up to you, leaning over you to put his beer down. "Hey," he murmurs, placing his palms down on the counter so you're boxed in. "I'm sorry, I'm just worried about her."

You nod and stare at the floor. _He knows, he knows, he knows_.

"Lydia," Stiles says hoarsely. "Hey, look at me. Where'd you go?"

You obediently lift your head but you can't quite make eye contact. "It's just sad," you say, your body flooding with horror when your voice wavers.

The worst part is, it's the truth. You _are_ sad. It's _awful_ , what Peter did to her.

What Peter did to you.

Stiles sighs, one of his hands coming up to cup the back of your neck. "Scott'll make some calls in the morning, get her into a rehab program. We've done it before."

You feel like you might pass out. "You have?"

"A few times." He runs his thumb along the side of your neck. "The longest she's ever stayed was a week."

You close your eyes, wondering how you made it here, _free_ , with Kira, your nice apartment, clean hotels, the ability to curb your using when you have to before it spirals out of control.

"This must be hard for you," he suggests. "To see her like this."

"All of this is hard."

Stiles leans down and presses his forehead to yours. "I know."

You just stand together in his tiny kitchen, breathing together. You want to cry and you don't even know why.

"Are you okay?" He sounds shaky.

"Stiles," you murmur. "I think you're the best person I've ever met."

He looks like he's lost, the way he stares into your eyes. "Are you being serious?"

"Well." You raise an eyebrow. "I suppose Scott is pretty nice as well."

Stiles laughs in disbelief. "You're incredible, you know that?"

"Stiles," you whisper.

"Yeah, Lydia?"

You swallow and press your face into his chest. "I'm afraid."

"It's okay," Stiles whispers back. "It's going to be okay."

The scariest part is that you believe him.


	6. Just Give Me Something to Hold Onto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Sorry you had to wait so long for an update, real life got in the way and I wasn't able to write for a few weeks, but I'm back now! Hope you enjoy the new chapter ;)

You offer to sit with Malia when Stiles gets called into work, something about a drug bust and three underage girls. He kisses your cheek and tells you _you're the best_ when he leaves. 

You lock the door behind him and hang your head in shame. You're a liar. A nasty little liar who takes and takes what she wants.

You hate yourself.

You think about leaving. About stuffing the contents of your closet into a duffle bag and running. Getting on a bus or a train and hauling your skinny ass out of town before things completely fall apart.

You go as far as to locate your bag and shoes when you see a flash of brown curly hair in the corner of your eye, like a warning. Fucking Allison, bossing you around. _Typical_.

"Fine," you whisper to the air. "You've made your point."

You don't see her but there's a cool brush of something across your cheek, like a kiss.

You sit down on the couch, pull Malia's feet into your lap and close your eyes.

/

You wake up to Malia moaning, her skin slick with sweat, eyes darting around the room.

"Hey," you say, squeezing her ankles. "It's okay. You fell asleep."

Malia stares at you, a deer frozen in high beams. "What are you doing here?"

"You don't remember-"

"I remember, but what are you _doing_ here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," you say sharply. You didn't even know she was in city, still. You thought she left with Peter.

Malia moans again, gripping her hair. "I don't feel good."

"I know," you murmur. "Try to relax, you're going to be okay."

"Fuck you," she says, but there's no venom behind it. "You left me."

"I thought you went with him," you say softly. "I didn't - Malia, I didn't know."

Malia's shaking, tremors running through her body. "I looked for you everywhere. Did you even try to find me?"

You can't even look at her. "Malia -"

She starts to cry. "God, Lydia. You have no idea, do you?"

"You don't know what he did to me," you snap defensively, your hand pressed against your side. "How was I supposed to know he'd left you here?"

Malia runs her hand over her nose. "God, you haven't changed at all. Still the same heartless bitch who only looks out for herself."

"And you're still practically feral," you snap.

She pulls her legs away from you like you slapped her. "Just go away. Why are you even here?"

"It's none of your business but Stiles asked me to watch you until he got back."

Malia shivers. It's painfully obvious how badly she needs a hit. "You fucking the nice detective Lydia? Give him a civil servant discount, huh? You always were classy like that."

You burrow into the corner of the couch. What is wrong with you, letting her get under your skin like this? She's just a girl, a girl who's probably withdrawing and doesn't know what she's saying.

You used to be like that. A girl in pain.

You take a deep breath and when you speak your voice is calm. "He's my boyfriend."

Malia just stares and then she starts to laugh, this horrible scratchy sound. "Oh my god. Oh my god, of course he is."

"He doesn't know about me," you tell her. "Please, Malia."

"You always were a good liar," she says, and then her face goes very white and she's twisting away from you to throw up all over the floor.

"Oh god." You crawl across the cushions to pull her hair away from her face as she heaves, spewing bile over the edge of the couch. "It's okay, it's okay."

She's crying again, her shoulders shaking. "I'm sorry." She gasps and braces herself against the arm of the couch. "Shit, I'm sorry."

"It's okay." You help her up and walk her to the bathroom. "Come on, you're okay."

She can barely stand on her own, you have to pull her vomit-soaked top up over her head. You don't know what to do with it so you throw it in the sink. She's sobbing, clinging to you like a little girl, skin clammy and damp with sweat.

"Let's put you in a bath, okay?" You run hot water in the tub and get Malia out of her pants, stunned again at those long smooth legs, how beautiful she is, even now, like this.

You help her into the bathtub, her hand clutching yours. She pulls her legs to her chest, her sobs slowing until she's weeping, cheek resting on her knees.

You find a washcloth and clean off her face. She sits still for you, lets you massage shampoo into her hair and use a plastic Mets cup to rinse it out.

"There," you say brightly. "Doesn't that feel better?"

She looks crumpled and miserable. "Yeah."

You sit against the side of the tub and work your fingers through her hair. "This is the worst part," you remind her.

Her eyes are glazed over. "Can you still get some?"

You inhale sharply. "Malia."

"Please," she wheedles. "Just a little. Just until I get to rehab."

"Malia, you know I can't do that."

"Please," she begs weakly. "Please, Lydia."

"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I'm so sorry, Malia."

She slumps back against the side of the tub and cries.

/

You've managed to get Malia wrapped in a towel when you hear the front door open. You leave her where she's curled up on the floor, absolutely refusing to move, but when you go in the living room Scott's kicking off his shoes.

"Stiles called," he explained. "How's the patient?"

"I can't get her off the floor," you say sheepishly, like a babysitter who's failed her charge.

Scott gives you a reassuring smile and you feel the tension in your body start to unwind. "Don't worry, I can handle this."

Malia's curled up in the fetal position, her wet hair dripping all over the bathmat. Her eyebrow raises when she sees Scott. "You gonna help a girl out or what?"

He pulls a bottle out of his back pocket and shakes a pill into his hand. "Suboxone. It should hold you over until we get you checked in tomorrow."

Malia opens her mouth obediently and dry swallows the pill. "Thanks," she croaks. "Can't wait."

Scott gives her a little smile. "It'll be better than this right?"

Malia looks straight at you and you feel lightheaded, you have to grip the edge of the sink for balance. "Anything would be better than this."

/

Scott leaves with Malia in the morning. He's taking her to a treatment program in Vermont, he says, tightening his jacket around the shivering girl's shoulders.

"Wait," Malia says, and throws her skinny arms around you. "Be careful, Lydia," she whispers, so Scott can't hear.

You purse your lips. "I'm always careful."

"I mean it," she insists. "If I hadn't met Stiles I'd be a dead girl walking."

"Aren't you?"

"Fuck you, Lydia," she says, but she's smiling. "You better visit me, whore."

"I prefer escort," you say coolly, a joke between the two of you.

Malia rolls her eyes. "Tell Stilinski I said thanks."

"I will."

She cocks an eyebrow. "How'd you meet him, anyway?"

You shrug. "In a bar. He picked me up."

"Uh huh. Sure, okay." You can tell she doesn't believe you.

"Okay, fine, I was waiting for a client, okay? He snuck up on me."

Malia nods, looking terribly sad. "Yeah, Stiles is kind of a pro at that."

/

You sit down on the bench next to Derek and hand him the cup of black coffee you purchased for him at the Starbucks down the street along with your latte.

He gives you a surprised smile. "Lydia Martin, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

You stare straight ahead. "I want to know what it's going to take to get you off my ass and out of my life."

He chuckles. "There's no negotiating your way out of this, Lydia. You know what Peter wants."

"It's my money!"

Derek shrugs. "He doesn't see it that way."

"He's a sociopath."

"Never said he wasn't."

Okay, time to take a different tact. "I saw your cousin."

Derek does a full body whip in your direction. "You saw Malia?"

"In the flesh."

"Jesus," he mutters. "I didn't even know she was alive."

You sneer at him. "She's been in the city for two years, by herself, and you never looked for her?"

For the first time he looks uncomfortable. "You don't go against Peter, Lydia. You know that better than anyone."

"Why, because he's your family?"

"It's complicated," Derek says stiffly.

"No, it's not," you argue. "You just don't want to admit the reality of the situation, because that would mean you were responsible."

To your surprise he actually looks a little hurt. "I never did anything to you."

"You could have stopped him. You could've gotten Malia out. She was a kid. You should have protected her."

"How is she?"

"Safe," you say tightly. You have a text from Stiles, telling you that Scott checked Malia into treatment an hour ago.

He nods. "Good."

"Good? That's all you have to say for yourself?"

He sighs. "What do you want me to say, Lydia? It's not like I'm in charge. I have nothing to do with her, we barely know each other."

"You know what your problem is, Hale? You can't think for yourself. You never could. You're just a good little soldier, taking orders from the mad king. You're pathetic."

He's unfazed by your anger. "And you're not?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You think you're safe just because you're sleeping with that cop?"

You're shocked into silence. He knows about Stiles? _Motherfucker_.

"You thought I didn't know," Derek assesses. "You underestimate me, Lydia. You always have."

"Stay away from him," you hiss. "He has nothing to do with it."

"You sure about that?"

Oh that is _it_. "You tell Peter that if he wants his money he can come and get it himself."

"Never gonna happen."

You take a sip from your cup. "Then I believe we're at a standstill."

Derek nods in agreement. "Looks that way."

"So what, you're just going to continue to stalk me?"

"I'm just doing my job."

You look at him, beautiful Derek Hale, wasting his life doing Peter's bidding. "Don't you ever want to get out?"

The poor guy actually looks confused. "What do you mean?"

"I mean get _out_. Get a life. A real life."

"Family _is_ the life, Lydia."

"Derek. That's not-Jesus, that's not an excuse. He's a monster. He'll take and he'll take until there's nothing left."

"I don't need you to explain Peter to me, Lydia."

"I feel sorry for you," you say softly. "I really do."

He scowls. "You don't know what you're talking about."

You look across the street at your building. Your curtains are slightly open; you can just make out a sliver of a pale face peeking through.

"We're all haunted, Der," you murmur. "Even you."

His eyes are hard and glittering. "I'll tell Peter you said hello, then."

"Fine," you snarl. "You're playing right into his hand, you know."

"What do you mean?"

You shake your head. "He's got nothing without you. You're the one keeping everything together. He needs you, you don't need him."

For one second you have him right in the palm of your hand, and then his face falls. "I'd go down with him."

"Maybe you don't have to." Oh, if you get him on your side, that could change everything. No more looking over your shoulder, no more paranoia.

You'd be free.

He scoffs. "Don't be naive, Lydia."

"He can't win, Derek. I won't let him."

"I sincerely wish you the best with that."

"And I sincerely wish you'd get your head out of your ass."

"Does he know?"

"Does who know?"

"Your boyfriend. About you. About what you do."

You curl your hands into fists. "No."

"You should probably keep it that way."

You raise an eyebrow in disbelief. "Are you giving me relationship advice?"

"Just making sure you don't do anything stupid."

"Glad to know you care."

"I never said I didn't care, Lydia."

"You have a funny way of showing it."

Derek gives you a piercing look. "People like us don't get to be happy, Lydia. You know that."

You think about Allison watching you through the window. Malia getting into the car with Scott and driving away. Stiles, holding you like you're something precious.

"And what if you're wrong?" you question.

He leans back, tilting his head up to the weak autumn sunshine like a cat. "I guess we'll find out."

You sit on the bench with him, contemplating it all: Peter, Derek, the possibility of never getting out. The rest of your life stretching out in front of you like a prison sentence.

You stay until your coffee grows cold and then you leave him there, watching you go, looking at you like you've broken his heart.


	7. Under Your Skin Feels Like Home

You start using again.

It's slow - a pill here, a line there. Nothing out of control, nothing that keeps you away from Stiles.

You use because you haven't seen Derek since that day outside your building. You use because you can't stop thinking about Malia. You use because Peter is out there, somewhere, and you'll never be free.

Not while he's still breathing, anyway.

It's a myth, actually: that one hit is all it takes. A story perpetuated in the nineties during the drug education and awareness movement. Back when heroin was _chic_

It's a lie, a total lie. Of course there are outliers, girls who do get hooked, and fast. Girls with empty broken hearts looking for love in a needle, shooting their veins up with poison.

Girls who end up like Malia, naked and sick on a cop's bathroom floor begging for just one more hit.

But the truth is that the majority of users are like you, people who can handle it, people who lie to themselves about what they can handle.

People playing the long game with themselves, their bodies.

People who have things to lose.

/

Something changes, after Malia.

Stiles becomes relentless. He asks you questions about your family, your job history. He wants to know why he hasn't met any of your friends, why you talk about your work in only the vaguest terms.

"Come on," he says one night, when you're naked in his bed, a navy flannel sheet wrapped around your waist, eating cold leftover pad thai. "You've met Scott. You hang out with us all the time. You've Skyped with my _dad_."

"That's different," you argue, transfixed by the way his wrist rotates as he scoops up noodles with his chopsticks. "Your dad is nice."

Stiles pouts. "I'm starting to feel like you're ashamed of me."

"You're being ridiculous."

Stiles takes the container of pad thai out of your hands so you're forced to look at him. "Why is it ridiculous that I want to know more about your life?"

You give him a pretty smile. "You want to know more about my life?"

Stiles lunges for you and you shriek as you fall back on the mattress. He props himself up on his elbows and grins like a shark. "Yes."

You reach up and grip his biceps. "Why?"

He bends down and latches onto your throat with his lips, making you gasp. "Because I think you're very interesting."

You turn your head to give him better access. "Really?"

"Fascinating." He licks a long line down to your collarbone and you shiver.

"And you want to know more?"

He passes over your breasts, which is disappointing, and works his way down your stomach. He avoids the scar from Peter (hasn't even asked yet, so patient with you) and drifts to your hipbone.

"Are you...bribing me?" you breathe, trying not to push your hips up.

He nips at the bone with his teeth. "Maybe."

You groan when he pushes your knees apart, tonguing the crease of your hip. You're panting now, his fingers tracing the tendons of your inner thighs.

"Okay," you gasps. "Just, please, please."

"Please what?" he teases.

You reach out and grip his hair. "Don't you fucking tease me," you order.

Stiles just chuckles, the bastard, and ducks his head to lick a hot stripe up to your clit, making you cry out. "Is this what you want?"

"Yes, _Jesus_." You clench your teeth, already halfway undone, little pulses of pleasure sparking under the tip of his tongue.

"Are you gonna let me meet your friends?"

Oh that's just evil. You would say anything right now and he knows it.

"May-be," you whimper, high and drawn out.

"Say yes," he says, and pushes two fingers inside you.

"Shit," you hiss, and roll your hips.

"That didn't sound like a yes," he mumbles, and flicks his tongue over you until you're crying out incoherently, pushing your hips up into his face.

"Say it," he demands, and clamps his lips over you.

"Oh god," you wail, one hand gripping his hair like its the only thing keeping you here.

"I'll stop," he warns.

"Don't," you plead. "Don't stop, please don't stop, Stiles, oh god, yes! Yes, _fuck_ , yes, yes, yes!"

He's grinning like a madman when he comes back up, his mouth wet and shiny. "Why Lydia, I would love to meet your friends, thank you for offering."

"Coercion," you accuse dramatically, pushing against his chest. "I agreed under duress."

Stiles laughs and kisses you. "I'm not above playing dirty, Lydia."

"Good," you say tartly. You swing your leg over his, and push yourself down on him, slowly, slowly, and he doesn't say another word.

/

You and Kira wait for Scott and Stiles at your favorite sushi restaurant the following weekend. Kira's nervous, tugging at the hem of her red sleeveless cocktail dress.

"Stop it, you look amazing," you chide. You're dressed in a white crop top and skinny black pants that make your ass look incredible.

Kira worries her bottom lip. "What do I even talk about? What do I say about my life? What if they don't like me?"

"It's not a date," you remind her. "I just need you to prove that I do in fact have a life. It's not a set-up."

"But what do I say?" she whines.

"Tell them you're in sales," you say. "It's not a lie."

Kira rolls her eyes. "It's not exactly the truth either."

"It's close enough."

"Oh my god," she says nervously. "Lydia, how do you do this?"

"Do what?"

She gives you a funny look. "Not be honest."

You shrug. "It gets easier, I guess."

She shuts her eyes. "I think I'm going to throw up. This was a terrible idea."

"Kira."

"Yeah?"

"Don't you want to have a regular life at some point? Like when we're too old to do what we do anymore?"

Kira nods. "Yeah."

"Well consider this practice. Unless you want everyone you meet to know you're a-"

"Lydia!" It's Stiles, with Scott following closely behind.

Stiles leans in and kisses your cheek. "You look sexy as hell," he murmurs, and pulls back to shake Kira's hand. "Hi, I'm Stiles, and this is my best friend Scott."

Scott leans in and takes Kira's hand, gives her his patented nice-guy smile. "It's nice to meet you."

Kira blushes. "Likewise."

To your intense relief, dinner goes perfectly. Scott and Kira are adorable, sneaking shy glances at each other and eating sushi off of each other's plates. If you're not mistaken they both seem totally enamored with each other.

You're floating on a haze of diazepam because you were way more nervous about tonight then you let on, but Stiles carries the conversation and no one notices that your eyes are glazed over and all you eat is tofu.

Scott and Kira apparently hit it off so well that he offers to walk her to her subway station and you all say goodbye on the street. Stiles takes your hand, leading you in the direction of his apartment.

"Hey," he says softly, kissing the side of your head. "Is everything okay?"

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry. "What do you mean?"

"You've been quiet all night."

You stop on the sidewalk, focused on his hand, how it's the only thing keeping you grounded. "I was just nervous," you lie. "I wanted it to go well."

He nods at that. "It's just that you've seemed a little... _nervous_ lately. In general."

_Oh god oh god oh god_. "What do you mean?"

He shrugs, looks uncomfortable. "Ever since Malia you just seem a little different."

"Different how?"

"I don't know." He runs a hand through his hair. "Sometimes you just seem so-"

"What?" You snap. "I seem so what?"

He blinks at you, his hand releasing yours to caress your wrist. "Sad. You seem sad."

Oh. You stumble back in your heels and he reaches out for you, keeping you steady. "I'm not...I'm not anything, I'm fine."

His hands tighten around you. "Lydia, do you want this?"

You gape at him, feeling like you'll fall over if he lets go. "Yes. Of course I want this, how can you ask me that?"

"Because you don't talk to me!"

You flinch. "I'm talking to you right now."

He glares at you. "That's not what I meant and you know it."

"Stiles, please. This is hard for me, okay?"

"No," he says furiously. "Not okay. I'm your boyfriend, you have to talk to me."

"Oh, I _have_ to?"

He inhales, hard. "If you want this relationship to work, then yes, you have to."

You are secretly so grateful you're high because otherwise you'd start to cry. "Stiles. Please. I'm trying, I really am."

He pulls your hands up to his mouth and kisses the top of your fingers. "Not hard enough, Lyds."

You shut your eyes so you don't have to see his face when you tell him. "There's a reason I'm like this, okay?"

You can feel his hands, those long fingers curled around your wrists. "And what's that?"

"My best friend was murdered."

He lets go and all you feel is cold air. " _What_?"

"I was sixteen," you confess.

He grabs you by the elbow and pulls you to sit down on the bench. "Lydia, what are you taking about?" You shiver and Stiles immediately pulls off his jacket and drapes it around your shoulders.

"My parents had just gotten divorced," you whisper. "I was-upset. Angry. I was partying one night. It got a little out of control. I had this friend. Allison."

You pause, thinking even with the Xanax you might start to cry. He pulls you closer to him. "What was she like?"

"Beautiful," you say. "Tough. She wasn't afraid of anything. Loyal. She made me smile."

He runs his fingers up and down your arm. "What happened?"

"I called her," you say softly. "That night. She offered to pick me up. The party was in a bad neighborhood. She was carjacked; the guy had a knife. She didn't make it."

"Jesus," Stiles exhales. "Oh, Lydia." He wraps his other arm around you and holds you tightly to his chest, whispers, _oh baby_ , into your hair.

"That's why," you say thickly. "Why it's hard for me to get close to anyone. I'm so afraid-it was my fault, Stiles, it was my _fault_ -"

"No," he argues fiercely. "No, no, Lydia, it was not your fault."

"She was there because of me," you whimper, your throat tight. "She came to save me and-"

"She loved you," he interrupts. "She was being a good friend. You are not responsible for a lunatic who would stab a teenage girl over a car. You're not, okay?"

You can't say it so you sniff and nod, bury your face in the warm column of his throat.

"Thank you," Stiles whispers. "For telling me."

You press your cheek against the heat of his skin. "Can we go home now?"

He kisses the top of your head. "Yeah, Lyds. Let's go home."


	8. And the World Feels Like Graves of Dirt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has its own trigger warning for serious angst and poor life choices. We have one (okay, maybbeee two) chapters left so don't panic, guys.

Stiles takes you to Pastis for your two month anniversary. You're giddy, you're never made it this far with someone, love that you have something defined - _look, here_ , eight weeks, something tangible you can mark on a calendar.

He pays of course, like always, his hands gentle on your shoulders as he walks you back towards the front door.

"Gonna hit the bathroom," he says, nosing your hair. "Back in a minute."

You flush pink like the tulips he brought you when you met outside the restaurant. _Look at me_ , you want to scream, to the other patrons, to the world. _Stiles gave me flowers, Stiles calls me his girlfriend_.

You wait for him, floating in your protective little bubble of infatuation, when your bare shoulder brushes up against someone's suit jacket.

"Excuse me," you murmur politely, turning, and then you freeze-

Oh fuck. _Fuck_.

Jackson stares at you, wide eyed. "What are you doing here?"

"Eating," you snap, hackles rising. "Obviously."

"With who? A _client_?"

You rub your wrists, remembering how easy you bruised under his hands. "Fuck you," you whisper.

He leans in, making you shrink back, arms going protectively around yourself. "Wish you would," he sneers. "You miss my dick? Miss the way I made you scream?"

Stiles comes out of the bathroom and you turn away, reaching for him, lacing your fingers together. "Come on, let's go." Big fake smile on your face. "It's starting to rain, it'll be hell catching a cab."

Jackson leans in towards you as you pass him, fingers brushing your elbow. "See you later, Ophelia."

Stiles frowns but you're pulling him through the glass doors, away from Jackson and your private humiliation. "Hey, who was that?"

"Who was who?" Nonchalant, blinking innocent eyes at him. Flutter your lashes for effect.

"The guy, Lydia."

"Hm? No idea."

"He called you something."

"Did he?"

Stiles chews on his lip. "You didn't hear that?"

You shrug, holding your arm out for a cab. "He must have thought I was someone else."

"Yeah," Stiles says, the hesitation in his voice making you squirm. "Guess so."

/

You wake up in a cold sweat, blood behind your eyelids, screams echoing in your head.

Stumble out of your bed and into the bathroom before Stiles can fully wake up, flip the lock and sink to the floor. You dig through the bottom of an old cosmetics bag until you find what you're looking for, toss two pills back without water.

"Lydia?" Stiles, knocking lightly on the door. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," you call out, your wavering voice betraying you.

"Lydia, open the door."

You splash your face with icy water, scrub with a towel. The girl in the mirror has bruised shadows under her eyes, hair damp with sweat.

"Lydia-"

"I'm fine." Open the door and he's standing right there, sleepy and worried. "See?"

He sinks a hand into your hair, frowns. "What happened?"

"Nothing," you murmur, closing your eyes against the feel of his fingers threading through your hair.

"You sure?"

"I'm okay," you murmur, leaning in to rest your chin on his shoulder.

He sighs, one arm looping around your waist. "I don't believe you."

You pull against his grip but he's stronger than you, keeps you trapped against his chest. "Stiles, let me go."

"No," he says shortly.

"Stiles."

"Lydia." In the dark his eyes are mysterious pools of refracting light. "Talk to me. Please."

"I'm okay," you whisper. "Stiles, it's okay."

"Look at you," he says, voice hoarse with sleep. "You're not okay. You're fucking shaking, Lydia."

You press your cheek against the heat of his neck. "You're overreacting."

He releases you then, walks away and reaches for his jeans, draped over your vanity stool.

"Stiles, what are you doing?"

He steps into his jeans, pulls his shirt over his head. "Going home."

"Stiles!"

"I'm not doing this with you," he mutters. "You're fucking lying to me-"

"Stiles. Come on."

He crosses his arms, squares his shoulders. "Say it," he demands. "Tell me you're not lying."

You back up against the wall, stomach tightening. "Why are you doing this?" you whisper.

"I don't know what else to do!" He scrubs his face. "I've tried-god, _everything_ with you. Being patient. Letting you come to me. Listening to every bullshit story you feed me."

"It's not like that!" you protest.

He scowls. "It's exactly like that and you know it."

You press the heels of your hands against your eyes. "I don't know what you want from me." 

He stalks towards you, hands reaching for your hips. "I want you to talk to me."

You gape. "I _did_. I told you, I told you about Allison, I told you I have a hard time doing this, I told you I was trying."

His jaw locks. "So that's it?"

You blink back tears. "What?"

"There's nothing else you want to tell me? Nothing else that I need to know?"

Your stomach drops, you can't do anything except shut your eyes so you don't have to see the look on his face.

"Lydia." His voice is pleading. "I care- _god_ , I care about you so much. But I can't do this anymore."

You gasp. " _What_?"

His voice is thick, like he's trying not to cry. "I'm done trying to help someone who doesn't want it. I can't do this anymore, Lyds."

 _No. Nononononono_.

"Stiles." You reach for him, digging your nails into his sides. "Please, _please_ , don't do this."

He shakes his head, reaches up and yanks your hands away. "Don't you get it? You're the one who did this."

He leaves and he doesn't come back, just like you always knew he would.

/

Everything is the same as before him, except everything is different.

Allison doesn't come to you. You cry in your bed every night, talk to her, beg her to come back, but nothing works.

You know why she's shunning you. She's mad, you ruined everything, again, and now she's punishing you.

Even Derek has left you.

You spend three days in bed, crying and snorting whatever you can find. And then you recover your dignity, take a shower, draw on your eyeliner and walk out the door.

You wander for awhile, end up in a little coffee shop in the East Village.

Where you bump right into Scott McCall.

You panic, literally run away from him, but you're coasting on benzos and haven't eaten anything other than cereal and ice cream in three days. You don't make it three feet out the door before he's right behind you, pulling on your arm and you're so weak you go limp and just kind of collapse into him.

He stares down at you and all the anger in his face drains away. "What the hell, Lydia?"

You steady yourself against him, force yourself not to look away. Blink him into focus. "Hi, Scott."

"Jesus," he mutters. "I thought Stiles looked bad."

It almost makes you feel better, knowing that he's as miserable as you are. Except somehow it just makes it worse.

"Lydia, are you okay?"

"My boyfriend dumped me," you say flatly. "What do you think?"

He sighs and to your surprise he slings one arm around your shoulders. "Come on," he says. "I'll buy you lunch."

He walks you to a deli, you sit in a corner booth and sip tomato soup out of a bread bowl while Scott devours a sandwich. You feel warmer, getting something in your stomach. You could curl up right here and go to sleep.

"Lydia. Hey, Lydia."

You rub your eyes and Scott's staring at you in concern. "Yeah?"

"Did you hear me?"

"What?"

He frowns. "I asked if you were okay."

You shrug, look down at the table. He leans forward and covers one of your hands with his. "God, your hands are freezing."

You pull out of his grasp. "It's almost winter in New York, of course I'm cold."

He sighs, the look on his face disturbingly earnest. "Lydia, can I ask you something? Just between us, I promise."

Your stomach starts to clench. What are you supposed to do, say _no_? He's sitting two feet away from you.

"Sure," you say, and give him a wan smile.

Then he shatters your world in four words.

"Lydia, are you using?"

Your vision actually blacks out for a second, your ears are ringing like a bomb just went off.

"What the fuck, Scott?"

He groans. "I'm sorry, but - Lydia, come on. You were all bruised up the first time I met you. You're affect is always a little flat, and sometimes you seem like, like right now, you're not even listening to me. Lydia, I'm not trying to upset you-"

You're already crying, your hand covering your mouth. "I can't do this."

"Lydia-"

"I have to go."

"No, Lydia, please, just hang on-"

But you're running, and you don't look behind you, don't stop until you get to Aiden's building. You fling yourself at him when he opens the door, halfway-hysterical.

"Hey, hey, Lydia." He steadies you by the shoulder and pushes your hair off your face. "What's wrong, baby?"

You blink at him, his beautiful face, shadows under his eyes. Bruises in the crook of one arm.

"Can you help me?" you whisper. "I need help."

He gives you the cockiest grin, pulls you down on his couch. "You sure?"

 _No_. "Yes."

Suddenly he's all business, jumping up and getting a carved wooden box from out of a locked cabinet. Reveals the contents one by one - lighter, a thin leather cord, small glass jar maybe an inch high, cotton ball, fresh syringes sealed in plastic, and a small baggie filled with smack.

Aiden grins as he sets up, puts the cotton in the jar along with the drugs, cooks it with a lighter.

"Here." He tosses you the string. "I'll shoot you up before I hit it. Wrap this around your arm."

You thought you'd be scared, you thought you'd be dead before doing this. But then you realize you can't feel anything.

Stiles was everything good in your life, besides your memory of Allison, and now that he's gone you realize how depressed you were before him, how lost, alone, talking to dead girls and fucking anyone with a thick wallet.

Stiles is gone and he took all the light with him. Peter's probably plotting your death right now, anyway. So why not?

You don't have anything left to care about, anymore.

"Ready?" Aiden crouches next to you, needle full of poison in his hand.

You look at it and all you want suddenly is that rush, to lose yourself in something, even if it's not real. Even when all you want is a boy with the softest voice and shining whiskey eyes.

You hold your arm out, like an offering. He bends down, you have to looks away. There's a small pinch and-

 _Oh. Ohhh_. You moan and slump forward into Aiden's waiting arms. He's laughing, helps you lie back on the couch. "I know, it's good right?"

It's almost like coming with Stiles, it's that good. Like all you are inside is warm melting honey, you want to float forever here on this dirty couch, Aiden's body up against you.

"Can we do more?" You're slurring, so gone you can't even talk.

"Lydia." He gives you a blissed out smile. "I just shot you up."

"I can. Handle it." You lean up against him, skin hot against yours and it feels so good, nothing has ever felt this good.

"In a bit." He pats the top of your head and _giggles_. "Just enjoy the ride, baby."

You drift for a long time, nestled between him and the back of the couch, forget about Stiles, about Allison, everything; just lie down with your eyes closed and contemplate never leaving.

"Okay," he sighs, and when you sit up he has a needle is his hand. "Little bit more."

The second time it crashes into you like a wave and all you can do is gasp when it knocks you under. Your eyes roll back in your head and you can hear him, so faint it sounds like a dream, _Lydia, Lydia_ , and right before you go totally under you see Allison, clutching at the windowsill, screaming for you.


	9. It's So Clear Now That You Are All That I Have

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok I swear we're almost done. This is the second-to-last chapter! Ah!

You wake violently.

Eyes snap open, lungs fill with air, like a cord has been snapped and you're gasping, limbs kicking out, everything a spinning blur-

"Lydia, hey, hey baby, you're okay, it's okay."

There are warm arms around you, you're being held against a solid chest, soft flannel under your cheek-

 _Flannel_ -

You looks right up and it's Stiles. _Stiles_. He's cradling you against his chest, your head in the crook of his left arm, staring down at you with glassy eyes.

"Hey, Lydia, you're okay, you're okay," he says hoarsely, a shaking hand cupping your cheek.

"Stiles," you breathe.

You can't say anything else without crying so you settle for staring at him in wonder. Stiles, _here_ , holding you, looking at you so intensely that it scares you.

You're shaking in his arms, struggling to breathe because you can't believe this is happening, how is this happening?

What happened?

"I'm sorry, Lydia." Over Stile's shoulder you can see Aiden pacing back and forth, his eyes red, right arm clutching his left bicep convulsively. "I'm sorry, I had to call him."

You reach up and curl your fingers around the open edge of Stile's jacket, real cool leather under your fingers. You don't understand. _Aiden_ called Stiles? "What happened?"

Aiden covers his face in his hands; his voice comes out muffled. "I couldn't wake you up. You stopped breathing." A harsh sob. "I did CPR until he got here."

You blink heavily, struggling to put it together. Stiles and Aiden?

"Aiden and I go way back," Stiles says tightly. "He called me and said a friend had OD'd on his couch. I didn't-" he slams his eyes shut before continuing "-didn't know it was you."

"Stiles," you whisper. "What did you do?"

"You overdosed, Lydia," he says shakily. "I gave you naloxone. I keep some on me because I've needed it before, with Malia. I didn't know - Jesus Christ, Lydia."

You have to shut your eyes so the tears don't spill out. "I'm sorry."

He curls over you, forehead pressing against yours. "You almost _died_ , Lyds."

You shiver in his arms, your heart doing a painful swoop in your chest. "I didn't mean to," you murmur thickly.

"You scared me," he whispers. "God Lydia, why didn't you tell me?"

Your eyes burn with tears. "I wanted-" you break off on a sob. "I was scared."

He kisses your forehead. "Well that makes two of us."

You tilt your head back so the tears don't spill out. "Are you mad at me?"

He traces your cheekbone with his thumb. "Right now I'm just grateful you're okay. I should take you to the hospital to get checked out."

"No!" you beg weakly. "I'm okay, I promise."

His hand, warm and alive, holding your face. "You sure?"

"Please," you whisper. "Take me home. Will you take me home?"

He swallows and gives you a painful looking smile. "I'll take you wherever you wanna go Lyds, but if you do that again I'll fucking kill you."

You rest your cheek on his shoulder. "Fair enough."

/

There's a black unmarked car parked outside of Aiden's building, hazard lights flashing.. Stiles insists on carrying you into the car. There's a guy behind the wheel you don't recognize, he drives you both to Stile's apartment silently while you breathe through your nose and focus very hard on not vomiting.

When the car parks Stiles slides out of the backseat first and helps you out of the car, holding you against his chest when you start to sway.

"You okay?" he asks, rubbing your back with one hand.

"Fine," you say faintly, and promptly throw up all over the sidewalk.

"Okay," Stiles says, and hoists you up so he's carrying you bridal-style. "That's enough walking for you."

He strips you down in his bathroom, the whole scene eerily reminiscent of what you did with Malia the night she showed up.

He tilts his head critically at you. "If I put you in the shower are you gonna pass out?"

You blink heavily. "Possibly."

"Okay," he says, and peels off his shirt and jeans. "C'mere."

He turns on the water and guides you into the running shower, his hands warm and firm on your hips. You tilt your head under the spray, open your mouth and swallow, let water sluice down your hair.

You're still shivering, arms crossed over your breasts, water beading in your eyelashes so Stiles looks almost iridescent, in soft focus, like a work from the impressionist era.

"Stiles," you whisper, and shuffle close to him.

His hands slide up to splay across your back and guide you to his chest. His skin is so warm, you moan softly and let your cheek rest against his shoulder. "Yeah, Lyds?"

You kiss the thin skin over his collarbone and he makes a beautiful choking sound. "You look like a painting," you whisper. "Boy holds girl in water."

"Lydia." The way he says your name hurts.

You lift your head up and blink at him. "Do you hate me?" you ask softly.

He reaches up with one hand and combs your wet hair behind your ears. "No, I don't hate you."

You shiver harder, knees buckling but his arms keep you anchored to him. He's very still, just watching you, your eyes filling up with tears.

"Hey," he murmurs. "I'm right here. Talk to me, Lyds."

You almost died. You almost _died_.

"Stiles," you gasp, and start to cry. "I'm scared."

He nods seriously, his hands cupping the back of your neck. "That was pretty scary."

"I need help," you choke out, and curl over, your forehead pressed to his chest. "Help me, please, Stiles, help-"

"Hey, hey, hey." He reaches around you to turn off the water. "Look at me, look at me baby."

He tilts your face up and you sob, literally naked and vulnerable, tremors running up and down your spine, because there's a secret part of you that wishes you were dead.

Wishes you were with Allison.

It's the part of you that scares you the most.

"I'm going to help you," he vows. "I swear Lydia, I'll do everything in my power to help you but you gotta let me, okay? Let me help you, Lyds."

"The last time someone tried to help me, they died," you whisper.

"I'm not her," he says firmly. "You don't have to live like this anymore, Lydia."

You crumple. "I don't know anything else. I don't know how-I'm a fucking genius but I don't-"

"Hey." His fingertips grasp your jaw lightly. "I know. Let me show you. Let me show you what it's like when you let people in. Let me in, Lyds."

You inhale hard and nod, frantic, because you don't have a choice anymore, all roads have led you here, to Stiles.

Remember that first shivery thought of him getting you out, and you think about Allison and blood and destiny.

He helps you out of the shower, wraps a towel tightly around you before slinging another one around his waist.

"You look freezing," he mumbles, and reaches out to rub your arms. "God, you're cold, come on."

He leads you to his room, helps you change into a long sleeve thermal shirt and a pair of his boxers. He yanks on a pair of sweats and you curl up on his bed, knees to your chest.

"So," you say quietly. "Are we still broken up?"

His eyelashes flutter. "I don't like being broken up."

A tear slides down the side of your face. "Me either."

He catches your tear with his thumb. "I shouldn't have left."

You lean into his touch. "I should have told you the truth."

"Yeah," he says gravely. "We're going to need to talk about that."

You shut your eyes against the pillow. "I know."

"But not now," he mumbles. "God Lydia-" he shakes his head. "Can I just-" he holds his arms out to you. "Fuck, just let me hold you."

You shift sideways so he can get his arms around you. He's shirtless, his skin is hot under your cheek. "I love you," you whisper. "That's why I didn't tell you. I'm selfish. I wanted to keep you."

"You think this would make me not love you?" He raises an eyebrow at you. "I thought you were supposed to be smart."

"I'm a bad person," you argue softly. "You shouldn't love me."

He runs his fingers through you're hair. "Just because you've made mistakes doesn't mean you're a bad person."

"I don't deserve you."

"Don't you dare say that," he says fiercely. "You are brilliant and gorgeous and special, and just because you're in pain doesn't mean you don't deserve to be loved."

You clutch at his sides, firm taut muscle in your hands. "Do you think I can be better? I want to be better."

Wants to be someone deserving of this, devotion, compassion, love.

He leans down and brushes his lips over your forehead in a ghost of a kiss. "I think you can be anything you want to be."

/

You wake up to your heart slamming against your chest, shivery with adrenaline even though according to the clock you slept for almost ten hours.

You're naked in Stile's bed, sheets scratchy against your skin, a shadowy bruise in the crook of your right arm.

You stare at it, the small puncture wound where the needle slipped under your skin, fascinated, and then you hear the faintest whisper in your ear, flip over on the bed but she's not anywhere.

You're alone.

"Alli?" you whisper.

Allison doesn't respond but you feel her anyway, a cold slippery feeling down the length of your spine.

In the kitchen Stiles has a pot of coffee brewing and he's standing by the stove, scrambling eggs in a pan with single-minded concentration.

"Hey," you say, because you feel the need to announce yourself, prove that he's real, you're real.

"Hey, Lydia, you're up, one second." He turns the burner off and scrapes the eggs onto two plates.

He crosses the room to you, shadows under his eyes, skin paler than usual. "Hey, how do you feel?"

You cup his cheek, frowning. "Did you sleep at all?"

He gives you a tight smile. "Not really."

"Stiles-"

"I watched you breathe," he says, and then grimaces. "Whoa, I just realized how creepy that sounded. Not in like, a serial killer way, in a _my girlfriend almost died_ kind of way, and watching her breathe was more important than sleeping, because you almost fucking died last night."

"You just called me your girlfriend," you point out.

He gives you a crooked grin. "You like that?"

"You're ridiculous," you say, and giggle, hide your face in his shoulder.

"I made you coffee," he whispers. "Extra strong, just for you."

"Mm, what would I do without you?" You mean it like a joke but it comes out vulnerable and you blink, surprised when your eyes fill up with tears.

 _Dead_. You'd be dead without him.

"Hey," he says softly. "It's okay."

You inhale hard and nod, do your best to give him a smile. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he whispers. "It's okay, Lydia. I know."

/

You go to your apartment together and clean out your stash, pills get flushed, old scorched tinfoil and straws get trashed.

All under Stile's watchful eye, the back of your neck flushed and heart hammering like any second he's going to whip out handcuffs, and not for a good reason.

"Couldn't you get in trouble for this?" you ask him, after you've gotten rid of everything.

He gives you a lazy grin. "Haven't you heard? We're all corrupt."

"Then you're the least-corrupt corrupt cop I know."

He reaches for you and weaves your fingers together. "Then would you mind coming to the station with me?"

You vision actually blacks out for a second before he says, "shit, no, not like _that_."

"Goddamnit Stilinksi," you hiss, and smack his shoulder. "Don't scare me like that."

"Come to the station with me," he coaxes. "I want to show you something."

"At your office?"

"At my office."

You breathe through your nose. "You see, this is why I knew I shouldn't have started dating a cop."

"I'm a detective," he proclaims, mock injured. "Some girls would consider that sexy, you know."

You bite your lip. "I never said it wasn't sexy."

"Hey," he murmurs. "You okay?"

You flush, turn your head away. "You're being too nice."

"You don't want me to be nice?" He sounds bewildered.

You peek back at him under the curtain of your hair. "It's just different."

"Good different?"

You freeze, because you can't hide anymore, and meet his gaze. "The best."


	10. Take a Glorious Bite out of the Whole World.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are guys; the final chapter! Thank you to everyone who has supported and commented on this weird little fic, you guys are amazing. Enjoy ;)

_Peter Hale._

The name is written in the center of a whiteboard hanging on one wall of Stiles' office.

Other names branch out from his, like a spiderweb. You walk over to the board, hypnotized, your life's story, well, _Ophelia's_ life story, written out in front of you.

A line connects Peter's name to Derek Hale. And, connected to him, by a short dashed line, Laura Hale.

Malia Tate is connected to both Peter and Derek, her relation to them notated along the lines linking her to them. An arrow leading out from her name connects her to the name Theo/Chimeras.

Your mouth falls open. The Chimeras are a major industry player. Bigger and more powerful than a typical gang, with enough muscle and influence to be feared and revered among certain people.

The Chimeras are the Hale family's biggest adversary, have been ever since the Alpha Pack fell apart a few years ago.

When Malia asked Stiles to get her out is this what she was talking about? Theo? How the hell did that happen?

You turn and stare at Stiles, who's looking at you intensely, like he's trying to interpret your reaction.

"Stiles, what is this?"

He leans against his desk. "That is the only case I never solved."

A case. A _case_.

Peter Hale is Stiles' case.

"Why are you showing me this?" you whisper. Does he know? Is he fucking with you?

He shrugs, a rueful smile on his face. "I'm kind of-well, obsessed with solving it."

You raise your eyebrow. "You brought me here to play show-and-tell?"

He rolls his eyes and pushes off the desk to stand next to you. "No, I'm showing you this because we're being honest now, right?"

You nod, both terrified and captivated by him.

Stiles slings an arm around your shoulder and you relax a fraction. "This is my job," he says. "This is what I do. I think you deserve to know what I'm dealing with."

"Are you even allowed to show me this?"

"Hey," he says softly. "You don't need to worry about getting into trouble, okay?"

You flush and look back to the board. "Aiden's name is on this."

"Yeah." Stiles chuckles and shakes his head. "He's a cocky little shit but he's been useful."

You tilt your head at him. "What do you mean?"

"The first time I picked up Aiden," Stiles says, "I busted him for possession. He was nineteen. I brought him into a room and told him we has enough to get him on trafficking and well-" Stiles' face splits into a smug grin - "the kid cracked. He begged me for a deal. Promised he would deliver me a goldmine."

You're shocked, Aiden's never told you this story before. You didn't even know he knew a cop at all, let alone that it was your boyfriend.

"So what happened?" you ask, because you can't help yourself. There's something inexplicably sexy about this, the shit-eating grin on his face at his own power.

What is wrong with you that this turns you on, the idea of his power over you, all of you?

"Did he ever tell you about Ethan?"

You look up at Stiles in surprise. "His brother?"

He nods. "He came here first, he was a runaway. I guess their parents weren't cool with the whole gay thing. So anyway, Aiden comes here looking for Ethan, goes broke, gets involved with some guys who deal, rumor is he was initiated into the Alphas."

"Oh," you say faintly. "He doesn't like to talk about that with me." You think about Aiden's face last night, the sheer terror and guilt rolling off him, like he was horrified with himself. "He wants me to think that he's a good guy."

Stiles make a face. "I wouldn't go that far, but he's trying. So anyway, we did a little digging while he was in a holding cell. It was easy to put together what happened. We made a deal. I would find Ethan, make sure he was set up. In return, Aiden would pass me information about who he dealt for."

"And you did it?"

"Scott did it," Stiles says, grinning with pride. "Found Ethan in one night, got him a bed at an LGBT shelter. And Aiden...Aiden was the one that got me onto Peter, and I let him walk."

You consider that. If Aiden had been convicted of trafficking it would've ruined his life. "Why would you do that for him?"

Stiles looks grave suddenly. "He begged me to. Peter would've killed him if he knew he'd talked to a cop."

"Stiles," you whisper, your voice shaking. "What happened? Why didn't you catch him?"

You haven't heard anything about Peter since he left with Derek. You know he's still alive, because of Derek, still a greedy bastard.

Stiles sighs heavily. "He disappeared. We were watching him - well not him, but Derek, his nephew. I was coordinating with the FBI actually. The Hale family is fucking legendary. Trafficking, drugs, girls, you name it, they've done it. And then..." He shrugs, his mouth twisting. "Into thin air. I don't know what happened exactly, but he must have gotten spooked."

"What about Malia?" you question, anxious to shift the topic. "How did she get involved?"

"Malia got picked up last year on the street for prostitution," he explains. "Then we ran her records and found out we'd arrested a minor and thrown her in jail. Scott threw a shit fit. He got her out, got her a bed at a rehab place in upstate New York. She ran away. By then we'd run a background check, I knew she was Peter's daughter."

"But you found her."

Stiles bends down and kisses the top of your head. "Every time. When she turned eighteen I offered to help her. She didn't want to get better but she sure as hell wanted her revenge on Peter."

You've heard about Theo Rakin. Gorgeous, sociopathic. Manipulative. Cruel. Not that Malia couldn't hold her own with anyone.

"Hey Lyds, how did you meet Aiden, anyway?" He asks. His tone is light, like he's just curious, but you know better.

"Through a friend," you say casually.

"What friend?"

You will yourself to be calm. "Erica."

He makes a show of looking confused. "I don't think you've ever mentioned an Erica."

"It was a long time ago," you say flippantly. "Anyway, she was a bitch."

Stiles laughs. "Yeah?"

"Awful. Teased hair. Red lipstick." You give him a coquettish look. "She'd devour you."

He raises an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"

"That's why you haven't met her," you tease. "I like you all to myself."

He grins, his hand warm on your shoulder. You want to relax, but your world is collapsing, slow and inexorable, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.

Stiles might not know about you, but he still knows.

Unless he does know, and this whole thing is theater, a performance, designed to shake you until you crack. You can't call his bluff without giving yourself away.

There's something on the board, something that scares you more than anything else. A single letter, O, with a question mark next to it. You press your fingertip to it, afraid to ask, too afraid not to.

"And this?" you murmur.

His face darkens. "That's a ghost."

"What do you mean?"

Stiles frowned. "There was a rumor that Peter was run out of town. He was at war with the Alphas, he was running all these girls. Maybe they were stealing from him. It happens. I heard a few rumors about this one girl in particular. Someone who had a direct connection to Peter. No one would name names, off course."

You're shivering, you tuck your face against Stile's shoulder so he can't see your expression. "You never found her?"

He shakes his head. "I heard she did something that pissed him off, or she tried to leave, I don't know. Just street talk. After he left New York no one ever heard from her again."

"Why is she on your board?"

His fingers run through her hair. "I don't know. I believed in her, I guess. All stories start somewhere, right? She's out there, or some girl is out there."

"You're worried about her," you deduce, feeling like you might pass out.

He gives you he saddest smile you've ever seen. "I worry about every girl I didn't save."

You kiss his collarbone. "You saved me."

His arms wrap right around you and he doesn't say anything else for a long time, and then you leave.

/

"I'm sorry," you tell Kira over drinks late that afternoon. "I just can't do it anymore."

Kira gives you a comforting smile and squeezes your arm. "It's okay. I understand."

You sign in relief, swirl your lemon drop around in the glass. Stiles is still at work, he's texted three times since you left just to check in.

"Look," Kira says. "I think the timing of this might actually be a good thing."

"What do you mean?"

She looks a bit sheepish. "I've been thinking about what you said the other night. About getting out."

"Really?"

"Well the money's crazy good," Kira says, giving you a cheeky wink. "But I think you're right. I don't want to have to lie about who I am. I've talked to Erica about handing over the reigns."

You laugh. "Erica? May lord have mercy on the city."

Kira giggles. "She's tough, she'll be great at it."

"So what are you going to do?" you ask her. "And are you hiring?"

Kira laughs. "I don't know yet. But it feels good."

You lean into her. "Yeah?"

Her eyes are sparkling. "Yeah. Like anything is possible."

/

You stay at Stiles' again that night. You feel safer here, with him, away from anything that could tempt you, scare you, break this fragile, tenuous reconciliation.

"Hey," he says, from the other side of his room, where he's stripping out of his street clothes and changing into sweats. "I need to talk about something."

You're sprawled on his bed, wearing a pair of polka dot printed boy shorts under one of Stiles' flannel shirts. You nod, you've known this was coming. You overdosed, of course he wants to talk about.

Stiles flips off the overhead light and turns on the beside lamp before crawling into the bed next to you. "It's about Malia."

Well that throws you. "What do you mean?"

Stiles slides his hand in yours. "Look, I need you to knows something, okay?"

You nod, your heart pounding in the cage of your chest. "Okay."

"Whatever you tell me, it'll be okay," he says, like he knows, like he's prepared for the worst. "But I need you to tell me the truth."

"Okay," you whisper, because you have no other out, it's too late for childish fantasies of escape. "What about Malia?"

His hand tightens around yours. "Something is bugging me. Something she said that night she came over. About you being her tutor."

"That was a long time ago," you say, staring down where your hands are interlocked. You want to freeze this moment, right here, right before it all goes to shit.

"That's the thing." His voice is gentle, like he knows. "When Malia was in high school you would've been at MIT. There's no way you could've been her tutor."

You look at him helplessly. "What do you want me to tell you Stiles?"

He looks grave. "I want you to tell me how you know the daughter of one of the biggest criminals in the country. And I want to know why you lied about it."

You close your eyes so you don't have to see his face when you shatter everything. "I didn't graduate from MIT."

You flinch when you feel his hand on your cheek. "What do you mean?"

Your eyes burn with tears, shame hot in your chest. "I tried. I really tried. It was just so hard. It wasn't because I wasn't smart enough but after what happened to Allison...I had nightmares. I'd freak out at parties. Making friends was difficult. I was depressed, I guess. Everything started to feel pointless. None of it mattered, because she was gone, she'd never see any of it, she didn't even get to go to college-"

"Hey, Lyds, take a deep breath for me," Stiles murmurs, because you've started to hyperventilate without even realizing it.

You gasp, inhale hard and force yourself to exhale slow, let Stiles cradle your face in his hands like you're something precious and not a lying whore.

"I dropped out," you admit. "I panicked and dropped out. So I got on a bus and went to New York."

"Oh Lydia," he says softly. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I was ashamed," you whisper. "You're so good, and I-"

"Hey," he says sternly. "None of that, okay? Your goodness and your actions are not the same thing."

You nod, shifting closer to him. "I got a job cocktailing. The tips were alright but I needed more money. My dad's pretty loaded but I couldn't tell him because then he'd know about what happened with school."

You take another shuddery breath. "I heard about a club that needed dancers. It was - easy. I wore a bikini and danced to Sweet Cherry Pie, and they hired me on the spot."

Stiles has the faintest smirk on his face. "I didn't know you could be a cliche."

You snort. "I was broke. Anyway, that's how I met Erica. She danced there. She's the one that got me into drugs. It was easier, like that. It made the pain go away. I stopped caring about school, about what what happened. I got hooked. And then one day she told me she was quitting and she wanted me to go with her."

He's running his fingers up and down your arms, like he knows you want to run. "And you did."

You nod. "That's how I met him."

He tucks your hair behind your ear so he can see your face. "Who?"

You swallow, afraid to say it, and curl into Stiles. "Peter. Peter Hale."

Stiles goes very pale, his expression quickly darkening into outrage. " _Peter Hale_? Peter like the Peter on my board, Peter Hale? Lydia, what the _fuck_ -"

"Look," you implore, and pull up your shirt to show him the scar on his stomach. "You never asked me how I got this."

Stiles looks completely freaked out. "I just assumed you'd tell me when you were ready."

You let the shirt drop and curl your fingers over Stiles'. "I'm ready now."

Stiles is staring at you; he's confused, upset, but: he hasn't left. He hasn't told you to leave. Maybe they're still hope.

"Oh my god," he breathes. "You're her, aren't you? You're O."

You press against him and let him hold you, let him stare into your eyes like you contain the secrets of the universe. "No," you whisper, and it feels like relief, like a letting go. "Not anymore."

/

In the morning, after you and Stiles pick up coffee together, exhausted from last night but somehow, incredibly, still together, a couple, you go back to your apartment.

In your mailbox, on top of a few catalogues and the newest issue of Vogue, sans envelope, is a folded sheet of notebook paper.

Addressed, simply, to O.

You stand in the lobby of your building, shaking, and unfold the paper:

Central Park Zoo, 5pm. Come alone.

Signed equally vaguely, D.

/

The zoo is practically empty, because it's almost December and its fucking freezing. You shiver and rub your gloved fingers together, looking for Derek.

You find him on a bench outside an empty exhibit, a heavy sweatshirt layered under his leather jacket. You sink down next to him and when he turns to you your stomach drops, his eyes are red and swollen and his face is very pale.

"What?" you whisper, terrified, because you know that face, it's the face that watched you fall to the floor after Peter stabbed you, the face that watched you bleed all over his floor while he waited with you for the ambulance.

"It's Laura," he says hoarsely. "She's dead."

"Oh Der," you murmur. You didn't know Laura but she was family, and you know that's all that matters, at least to Derek.

"He killed her," Derek grits out. "He killed my sister."

You nod, because you believe it, because nothing surprised you anymore, not when it comes to Peter. You sit silently with him, shoulder to shoulder, while he cries silently into his hands, shaking. You rub his back and wait until he calms down.

"This has to end," you say softly. "Derek."

"I know," he says hoarsely, staring blankly around the empty zoo. "I can't do it anymore. I can't leave but if I stay we both know I'll end up just like her."

"I can help you," you promise him. "Derek, let me help you."

You've never seen him like this, weak, utterly defeated. He scrubs his face, nose turning red from the cold. "I'm not going to prison, Lydia."

"What if I could get you a deal?"

He snorts. "How?"

"Do you trust me?"

He eyes you suspiciously. "This about your boyfriend?"

"This is about us. We'll never be free of him unless you help me. Please, Derek," you implore. "I can't live like this anymore either."

"I don't know if I can do it," he admits. "He's my uncle."

"He's a _monster_."

He looks gutted. "They're not mutually exclusive."

"Ill help you. We can do it together."

He wipes his nose with the back of his hand. "Got a genius plan I don't know about?"

You find his hand and squeeze it tightly. "Don't I always?"

/

Stiles is buried under a mountain of paperwork in his office when you walk in, dressed in a Burberry trench and heels, an afternoon coffee for him in your hand.

His face lights up when he hears you come in. His hair is a mess and there are circles under his eyes, but he's looking at you the way he did on your first date, like you hung the moon.

Like you aren't dirty or bad or wrong.

Like you're just a pretty girl in love with a beautiful boy who still sees you as the mysterious lonely girl at the bar.

"Detective," you say, leaning up against the wall so he can get a good look at your legs.

"Jesus, get over here already," he says, and you give him a sly smile, walking slowly across his office and coming behind his desk.

"You are fulfilling so many of my fantasies right now," he mumbles, setting the coffee on his desk so he can pull you onto his lap.

You settle your legs on either side of his lap so they drape over the edges of his desk chair. "I come bearing gifts."

He runs his hands under the hem of your coat. "This isn't the gift?"

"Stiles," you say. "What do you want more than anything else?"

He dips his head to kiss your neck. "To find out what you're wearing under this."

"Hmm." You wrap your hands around the back of his neck. "Think a little bigger."

"I hope you're wearing the red thing, I love that thing, you know, the one with all the straps-"

"Stiles." You pull his head up so he's looking at you. "Focus. I'm going to tell you something now."

"Okay."

You take a deep breath. "What if I told you I could give you Peter?"

His eyes go round. "Are you serious?"

"Very."

"But- _how_?"

You trip your thumb down his spine. "Don't freak out."

"Okay."

"I saw Derek Hale today."

"You _what_?" He's so outraged you almost fall off his lap.

"I said don't freak out," you reprimand.

"Lydia." He looks appalled. "What the hell?"

"He found me," you explain. "He's scared. He wants help."

"Help," Stiles says in disbelief. "He wants help."

"He can give you Peter," you tell him. "He grew up with him. He'll give you everything."

"You talked to him? He agreed to help us?"

"Well he did have a caveat," you say lightly.

Stiles snorts. "And that would be?"

"He stays out of prison."

"No way," Stiles says immediately.

"Stiles!"

"He's a criminal, Lydia."

"He's not Peter," you argue. "He's a Hale. You know how they are. The things he might have done - he didn't have a choice."

"You're asking me to give up Derek. I can't do that."

"I'm asking you to not punish a man for what he was made to be."

Stiles is frowning. "That's not how the law works."

"Stiles, listen to me," you beg. "You're good because your father taught you to be good. Allison came to save me because her parents raised her to be brave. Scott is kind because he grew up watching his mother care about others. We are who we were made to be, for better or worse. Even Derek."

Stiles tips his head back in defeat. "Why do you have to be so smart?"

You wiggle in his lap. "It's one of my many charms."

Stiles sighs, his hands warm on your thighs. "Are you sure about this?"

You lean in so you can lay your cheek on his shoulder. "No. But I'm tired of running away from him. I'm tired of pretending to be someone else. I need this to be over."

"I'm going to have to talk to my captain," he muses. "Convince him to officially reopen the case. And then there's the manner of getting Peter back into the state."

"Oh, don't worry about that," you assure him. "I have a plan."

Stiles raises an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"

"You see," you tell him quietly, turning your head to kiss under his earlobe. "I have something he wants."

Stiles slides his hands up into the creases of your thighs. "And what's that?"

You moan quietly and roll your hips, safe here, in his arms, safe enough to make a real bid for freedom. "Me."

/

"Are you sure about this?" Stiles asks, his voice thick with concern. "It's not too late to back out now. We can still get him."

You glance around the hotel room, where four other cops are watching video feed of the hotel lobby, the elevators, and especially the room next door. A room with a camera Stiles wired into the entertainment unit yesterday.

A trap for an animal.

"I can do this," you reassure him, leaning into him. "I have to do this."

One of the cops, you think his name is Liam, waves you and Stiles over excitedly, one finger on his earpiece. "Alpha and Beta are in the hen house, repeat, Alpha and Beta are in the hen house."

You watch on the monitor as Peter Hale, face concealed by a baseball cap and large sunglasses, enters the lobby of the hotel, followed by Derek, more recognizable in his leather jacket, thick hair uncovered.

You watch as they turn to the elevators and see Derek sign behind his back, where he knows the cameras will pick it up, making an O with his fingers. He's talking to you, letting you know everything is going as scheduled.

Yesterday Derek signed his plea deal at the courthouse with Stiles, an FBI agent, the DA, and a lawyer named Mason, who looked like he graduated law school about five minutes ago but was savage with the DA and got Derek a killer plea deal: no time served, restitution to be paid out of the Hale family coffers, and five hundred hours of community service.

You all watch, in silenced awe, as they exit the elevator on the sixth floor and walk down the hall, open room 604 and enter it.

You still can't believe it, that the plan worked, that Derek convinced Peter to come to New York. For you.

You press your palm up against the wall. Six inches beyond your hand is your monster. Waiting for you.

Stiles runs his hands nervously over your shoulders. "You ready?"

You give him a shaky smile and smooth over your top. "I can do it."

He softens and gives you a quick kiss. "Go kick some ass."

His captain quickly runs things over with you while Stiles watches, biting his lip, and then you're walking out the door, watching him watch you leave.

You walk down the hall, relieved knowing that they're watching from the camera in the ceiling. You're not wired, everyone agreed it was too risky.

You knock on his door, feeling like you might pass out or throw up, whatever comes first. "Room service," you call out.

To your relief Derek opens the door and some of your panic dissolves. He looks reassuringly calm, leaning in to kiss your cheek as he gently shuts the door behind you. "Lydia."

"Derek."

He gives you a thin smile. "You came."

You keep your eyes locked on him, recite your line perfectly. "You were right. I don't want to run anymore."

You blink back a sudden rush of genuine emotion, and then say the clincher. "I want to come home."

"Darling." Peter slinks out of the shadows, like the villain he is. "It's been too long."

"Peter," you breathe, and have to stop yourself from hiding behind Derek.

He stalks across the room to you and you stand your ground, chin held high. You let him look at you, the girl he stole from her old life, the girl he tried to own completely.

"You look well," he sneers, fingering a lock of your hair.

"I believe autonomy agrees with me," you say lightly.

He snorts. "If you really believed that you wouldn't be here."

You give him your wide doe-eyed look, play-acting at vulnerability for him. "Am I that transparent?"

His lips are right against your ear. "You were never as good a liar as you thought you were."

"You always see right through me," you acknowledge softly.

"Lydia," he murmurs, tender, like you're his lover. "Where the fuck is my money?"

"I have it," you murmur. "But I want something first."

He laughs, threading his fingers through your hair. "Sweetheart, you're hardly in the position to negotiate."

You tilt your head and pray. "Who says?"

His charm slips, something dark flicks in his eyes and he says, _me_ , but then there's an enormous crash as the door slams open and the room is stormed-

Police come at you from every angle, weapons drawn, and all three of you are slammed to the ground and handcuffed. Just like you planned.

You catch Derek's eye as Liam yanks him up, an ocean of grief and loss swimming in his green eyes. You're all hauled down to the lobby and out the doors to black SUV's waiting on the curb.

Peter is put in the back of a car with Stile's captain, and you and Derek are put in the backseat of a car with Liam and Stiles. Once the doors are closed they both lean over the console and takes the cuffs off and you all just sit there for a moment in stunned shock.

And then Stiles says faintly, "Holy shit, we did it. We fucking did it!"

And then you're all screaming and laughing and hugging, and it's better than drugs, better than sex, like justice and freedom and your whole world suddenly ripe with possibility.

/

"No way," Malia says flatly. "You're shitting me."

You sprawl out next to her on one of the couches in the common room of her rehab center. "Would I do that to you?"

Malia runs her hands through her hair. Her skin is clear and tan and her legs have some muscle again. "I can't believe it," she whispers. She sounds like a child, like the girl you used to know.

You squeeze her thigh and smile. "It's true. You're free, Malia. We're free."

The younger girl leans her head on your shoulder. "You really are a genius, you know that?"

You play with her hair. "Of course I know. You look really good. Meet any cute boys in here?"

She laughs. "Oh sure. Nothing like detox to make all the guys want you."

"Better than Theo," you tease.

She shrieks. "You promised you wouldn't give me shit about that! I told you, it was for the case."

You raise an eyebrow. "Sure, whatever you say."

Malia grins. "He was pretty hot, though."

You visit for another twenty minutes, until it's time to go. She hugs you when you leave, the smile on her face almost worth it all by itself. You understand, there's a lightness to everything now that Peter's gone. For good.

He's in prison where he's awaiting trial. The case against him is massive, even without your testimony it would be a slam dunk. Stiles got a promotion, and quickly upgraded to a larger apartment. You moved in last week.

In the fall you're going back to school. You got into Columbia, almost all your credits from MIT transferred. You're thinking about switching your major. You're not stressed about it, the possibilities, all these new opportunities at your fingertips, are thrilling.

You meet Stiles in the parking lot, he was talking to Malia's counselor about transitioning her to a sober house. His face splits into a grin when he sees you, his breath visible in the cold air.

"Hi," you beam at him, huddling under his arm as he walks you around to the passenger side and opens the door for you.

He runs around the front of the car and jumps into the driver's seat, turns over the engine and puts the heat on blast. "Fuck, it's cold."

"It's January," you say wryly.

"How was Malia?"

"Good." You take off your gloves so you can hold your hands up to the air vents.

"You ready to go home?" He grins at you, eyes lit up, because it's still exciting, you and him, together, for real, no more lies separating you.

You lean forward, still amazed by this, his arms around you, your heart still a raw and aching thing but he makes it better, makes you safe, makes the world unroll before you like a red carpet.

Something flickers over the edge of the windshield. You lift your head up and squint, it's a girl with long brown hair in a braid, leather boots, and a bow slung over her shoulder.

She's smiling.

You blink and she flickers, and then she's gone.

"Lydia?" Stiles prompts uncertainly.

You tuck yourself under his shoulder and smile, eyes still on that shimmering spot of air where Allison stood. "I'm ready," you say. "Take me home."


End file.
